


New City, Same Enemy

by Alkeni



Series: The Maelstrom Series [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 75,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alkeni/pseuds/Alkeni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Wolfram and Hart decide to set up a branch in Chicago, Johnny Marcone looks for someone with experience fighting them. Wesley, late of Angel Investigations, seems a perfect candidate. Post 'White Night' and Episode 4x02 of AtS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Offer

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Angel the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer or the Dresden Files. They are owned by their respective writers, publishers, producers, etc. I'm just borrowing their characters. When I use direct lines from any of these universes, I don't own those either.

**Author's Note:** This takes place sometime after 'White Night' and starts during AtS episode 4x02 “Ground State.” The events of “Small Favor” and the books after it will not happen, although things from those books may be drawn upon in this fic. The later events of 'Angel' still happen, but are not going to be touched on that much in this fic.

**Author's Note 2:** In any crossover of the Buffyverse and the Dresden Files, probably the central hurdle in terms of reconciling the universes is the fact that none of the Three Courts given screen time in the Dresden Files really match the Buffyverse vampires perfectly. There have been a variety of ways of ironing out the differences, and the way I've chosen to do it is have it that the Vampires that have shown up in AtS and BtVS have all been Black Court, and that unlike in canon Dresden Files, they are not vulnerable to garlic or running water, though they are as presented in both universes otherwise. I do this because it seems the simplest way to reconcile the universes. Angel is Black Court, but he has a soul, as does Spike, by this point.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 1: The Offer

Wesley was alone in his apartment in when the phone call came. Not that that was an uncommon state for him, these days. A false prophecy has seen to that.

Not for the first time, Wesley wondered why he'd not consulted anyone – Fred, Gunn, Lorne, Cordelia, if not Angel himself – about the prophecy. The Father will kill the Son. At the time, his reasoning made sense to him – and he suspected that it was only hindsight that was really making it possible for him to wonder. He'd done what he'd done, doing what he thought right with the information he'd had at hand. Angel's anger he understood, but Fred's words had cut the deepest.

Contrary to what Lilah had claimed, he'd not rescued Angel out of some desire for forgiveness – he didn't want forgiveness, not in that way anyway. He'd rescued his former friend because it was the right thing to do. Because Angel, all else aside, was a Champion for the Powers and a force for good in the world. Wolfram and Hart, and all the other evils in Los Angeles would not stop just because the person best positioned to oppose them and their schemes was in a metal crate underwater. But Wesley had no intentions of returning to Angel Investigations – not that he even could, if he'd wanted to.

Which was why the call had come at a fortuitous time.

“Hello?”

“Is this Wesley Wyndam-Pyrce, formerly of the Watcher's Council and Angel Investigations?” _Lovely._ Was his first thought. _Recite the litany of my failures._

“Who wishes to know?”

“I am calling on behalf of Johnny Marcone.” Wesley knew that name. The rise of a complete mortal to the rank of Freeholding Lord in the Unseelie Accords could not go unnoticed to Wesley, even this far from Chicago, and even if the Watchers Council had pointedly refused to sign the Accords, or any of the various treaties and accords that had preceded it, in its long history. The Council was, in essence, perpetually at war with all three Vampire Courts, even if the Slayer mostly dealt with the Black Court, and it had never wanted to constrain its actions by signing onto the Accords. “Mr. Marcone,” the person on the other end of the line said, “would like you to come to Chicago and meet with him regarding a job offer.”

A job offer. Since his recovery, Wesley had operated his own small group of demon hunters, but now that Angel was back, he'd been planning on leaving L.A. Staying in the same city as his former friends now offered too many chances to run into Angel, given that they'd both be operating in and dealing with the supernatural underworld of the city. Even if Angel wasn't going to kill him on sight – which he probably wasn't anymore, encountering him again was not something he looked forward to. Working for a Mafia boss did not sound particularly appealing, and if the offer had come even a few years before, he'd have turned it down in a heartbeat, but at this point, his options were limited. The Council wouldn't accept him back, the Slayer was hardly going to want to have much of anything to do with him at this point, especially given how close she was to Angel, when added to his conduct leading up to his firing by the Council.

“Why exactly, if he offering me a position. I am not exactly in the same line of work as most people who work for Mr. Marcone.”

“Recently, a new player has arrived in Chicago, and Mr. Marcone is not at all interested in them interfering with his people or his operations. When he determined the intentions and nature of this new player, he has tried to find someone who both has significant knowledge of this group and experience opposing it, and was available. Your name came up positive in both categories.”

The only groups he could think of that might be of particular interest to a man like Marcone and that Wesley had any real knowledge of were the Watchers Council – which he didn't exactly have experience opposing, per se, and Wolfram and Hart. The L.A. Branch constituted the company's primary offices in the North American continent, but not its only one.

“Wolfram and Hart.” Wesley said.

“Yes. Can I tell Mr. Marcone that you accept?”

“No, but I am willing to go to Chicago to hear him out. I have a few things to wrap up here in Los Angeles, but then I shall leave for Chicago.”

“Alright.” There was a click as whoever it was on the other end of the line hung up, and Wesley sat back down. He had not anticipated anything like this, but...Wolfram and Hart was an enemy he knew how to fight, and if they really were setting up operations in Chicago, he could only do good opposing them – even if he would be doing it under the auspices of a crime lord. Not that the law had really been a particular consideration or block on their actions at Angel Investigations when it came to doing the right thing, fighting the good fight.

He had one more job with his team - finding a man being held for ransom by demons - and he would give to Angel everything he'd been able to gather on Cordelia's disappearance. What little it was, like with rescuing Angel, it was the right thing to do.

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“Need help?” He heard the familiar voice of Angel as he swung his axe through another demon.

“No.” He paused for a breath. “Thanks.” He bent down and picked up a key on a chain. “So. Mr. O'Leary is being kept in a motel. How original. Free him, go to base and have Diana close out the file.” He told his – soon to be former – employees. They knew this was his last case with them. All the money from it was theirs, and they were capable of carrying on on their own. “Hawkins, back of my car.”

“Running your own game now, huh?” Angel said, the slightest hint of accusation in his tone. _Of course I am. I can't work with you anymore, and I'm hardly going to give up the fight just because I'm not with you anymore_. Of course, the accusatory tone could just be because Angel still hadn't – and likely never would, before Wesley died, of violent or even natural causes – forgiven him. Wesley didn't say anything. The answer was, after all, fairly obvious. “I never got a chance to thank you.” The vampire continued. _Oh yes. Now it comes_. Wesley had expected something like this. Angel was too predictable with his moral code, at times. “Finding me, bringing me up.” Wesley had been planning on mailing the file to Angel, but since he was here now, he might as well give it to him. He went towards the severed half of a demon and moved it. “Must have been hard for you. No map. All that water.” Wesley turned towards the metal briefcase Hawkins came back with – where he'd been keeping the file on Cordelia. Angel followed. “Look, what went down between us. I had a lot of time down there. To think. You know...about the way things went, the way things could've gone. And...I just want you to know, as far as I'm concerned, we're okay again.”

Wesley highly doubted that. Even if it was true, in the abstract, Wesley wasn't ready to forgive Angel, however justified he'd might have felt – or even been – in trying to smother him with a pillow. Wesley, had, after all, felt justified, and by all the information he'd had to work with, been justified, in kidnapping Conner, even if things had ended out far worse than he could have imagined. And the way Fred and Gunn had turned to him for leadership after he'd returned Angel to them, as if the preceding months hadn't happened...they were all hypocrites, and himself no better. Wesley opened the briefcase and handed the file to Angel.

“What's this?”

“What you came for.” The vampire opened it. “That's everything I have on Cordelia's disappearance.”

“Did your own investigation?”

“I don't think she's dead.” The hopeful look in Angel's eyes was unsurprising. “Can't say for certain of course, but I don't believe she's in our dimension any longer. Beyond that....its a road I couldn't follow. No living thing can.”

“Who's Dinza?”

“One of the Eleusian Mysteries. Dark Demigod of the Lost. Only the dead can enter her presence. And those that do she often traps for eternity.”

“Sounds cheery.”

“I managed to locate her lair.” As he spoke, Wesley coiled rope around his arm. “Obviously, I couldn't enter myself.”

“So this Dinza can tell me where Cordy is?” _No, of course not. You can't expect a creature like her to just give you straight answers Angel._ For all his age and experience in the world of the supernatural, Angel simply lacked the breadth of knowledge Wesley had. _And even if she could, the price is rarely one that can truly be paid in full._

“No. The most she'll tell you is where to look. Just beware,” he closed the briefcase. “Dinza isn't remotely trustworthy.”

“What should I do then?” Angel's own hypocrisy was on full display now...but...Wesley was in no position to cast stones. “Send her a gift, sacrifice? Unholy fruit basket?” Wesley just shook his head.

“I've done all I can in this. Tomorrow I'll be leaving Los Angeles.”

“What do you mean? You can't leave –“

“This is your city, Angel. Even if you were willing to truly forgive me for what happened with Conner, we can't go on as if nothing happened, and staying in the same city will do neither of us any good.”

Angel looked more offended now, than anything else. “Where are you going then? The Watchers-”

“I've received a job offer, from someone in Chicago, if its any of your concern. It seems Wolfram and Hart have decided to set up operations there as well, and at least one local isn't interested in letting them do so unopposed. If all goes well, we'll never have to see each other again.” He didn't wait for a response from Angel, taking the briefcase and his axe and leaving the long-abandoned factory. And leaving, for good, the life he'd led for nearly three years in Los Angeles.


	2. The Meeting

Disclaimer: Buffyverse and Dresdenverse are not mine. In addition to the actual Dresden Files books, I have also drawn some bits of information and more in depth details about some aspects the Dresdenverse from the Dresden Files RPG books, which give some nice examinations of how that universe works that you can't give in a book in one place (text walls of extrapolation being a turn off for most readers). I don't own the DFRPG either. I also don't own Thucydides's line about war and money.

Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews!

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 2: The Meeting

The supernatural world was a world within a world. In the middle of an otherwise normal slum, you might have a nest of vampires, or a wizard living in an apartment complex in the rich district of town. _Or a law firm run by and for demons._ Wesley considered idly. Caritas had been another such place, and like McAnally's Pub was, it had been a Accorded Neutral Ground under the Unseelie Accords. McAnally's was not, unlike Caritas, protected by additional wards rendering violence impossible, but the players active in Chicago, from what little he knew about the supernatural state of affairs here, were a little more respectful of the Accords than the residents of Los Angeles. Or were more worried about those who did respect them, anyway.

Wesley took another drink of the beer he'd ordered as he waited at the table. It had been Marcone's wish to have the meeting here, and so he was waiting. He was only drinking the one beer – and it was some of the best beer he'd had in America – in the meantime.

It didn't take that long. He'd arrived early, and Marcone had arrived exactly on time. He also, predictably had not arrived alone. Wesley took a moment to look over the crime lord and his two companions. One, a tall blue-eyed blonde virtual amazon was, unless Wesley missed his guess, was a Valkyrie, working for Monoc Securities. Wesley had never seen one in person, but from time to time even the Council had found itself in need of the skills Monoc could bring to the table, and it had been duly included in his education as a Watcher. Her loyalty to Marcone would last as long as his money, and no longer. But Wesley highly doubted Marcone was in any danger of going to the poorhouse any time soon.

Marcone's other companion was also easily to classify. The massive redheaded man all but screamed 'enforcer', but Wesley could also see the intense loyalty Marcone had. One didn't have to be an expert and reading people – and Wesley could be good at that at time, and abysmal at it at others – to see that.

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Good afternoon.” Marcone said, as he sat down. The Valkyrie sat down next her subcontracted employer, and the other man simply stood, keeping a wary eye open.

“Mr. Marcone.” Wesley said. “And...?”

“This is Mister Hendricks.” He said, indicating the enforcer, “and Ms. Gard.” He steepled his fingers. “You are a very interesting man, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. I do believe, that when it comes to Wolfram and Hart, you are excellent choice for dealing with them. I am prepared to give the job to you – your record with Angel Investigations speaks for itself – so the only one, it would seem, that needs convincing is you.”

“Indeed. Although, I am more than a little surprised you are opposing Wolfram and Hart's activities, given your...extracurricular business interests.”

“I already have lawyers, whose first loyalty is to me. I don't need ones that work for demons. I like my soul, such as it is, exactly where it is. Chicago is my town, and I had hoped becoming a Freeholding Lord would solidify that. Unfortunately, it seems the recent truce in the Red Court-White Council War has given Wolfram and Hart the desire to set up shop here.”

The war between the Red Court and the White Council had been welcomed by the Watchers Council. The Slayer was excellent at dealing with Hellmouths and what came from them, unaffiliated demons and the highly fragmented Black Court, and the Council was more than capable of making the Red and White Courts hurt, but the Slayer wasn't really equipped to take on a threat like the more organized Red and White Courts, nor could she be spared from her more direct duties, and the Watchers were not practitioners on the scale of The White Council, who had the capability to put a massive dent in the Red Court. The Council had provided some aid and intelligence when the war was ongoing, but neither council particularly trusted the other. What few contacts he still had in his former Employer's organization had told him that Travers and his circle had been particularly furious about the truce, but like so much recently, he was powerless to change it.

“What exactly would the nature of this job be?” Wesley asked.

“You would not be asked to break any laws – or at least not any laws that you didn't break when you were with Angel Investigations. The fact that Wolfram and Hart is also a Freeholding Lord,” _That is interesting. I didn't know that, though it makes sense that demon lawyers would sign onto one of the most complicated and vague treaties in the history of the world._ “Does restrict your actions as an employee of mine somewhat. I am not prepared to engage in full scale war with the firm just yet. You would, with substantial resources at your disposal, work against Wolfram and Hart, its clients and its projects. So far they've been just getting started in the town, but I do not like their interference in my, as you say, extracurricular business interests, and their intrusion into the supernatural underworld here in Chicago is creating chaos. I do not like chaos. Harry Dresden makes enough of it on his own.” Marcone was not a man to spend words idly. He was mentioning this 'Harry Dresden', for a reason. Wesley decided to bite.

“Harry Dresden?”

“The only wizard in the Chicago phone book. Also the Warden for the eastern half of the United States, a private investigator and a frequent consultant to the Chicago Police Department's Special Investigations division. He attracts trouble, and creates a great deal of chaos in dealing with it. He's also annoyingly self-righteous, but quite capable, in his own way. Like myself, he is not thrilled by Wolfram and Hart's presence, and as I understand it, most of his recent work has been dealing with them or the fallout related to their arrival in the city. Odds are you'll find yourself working side by side with him from time to time, if you take the job. I don't your blood pressure.”

“What kind of resources are we talking here? And how much direct control do you intend to have over what I would be doing? I can't successfully operate against something like Wolfram and Hart if I have to go to you for every major decision.”

“I'm sure we can come to a reasonable agreement about oversight. As long as you do your job with a minimum of untidiness, I can give you a great deal of room for initiative and independent action. Micromanagement is rarely profitable. As for resources, money, most specifically. Angel Investigations has done impressively on a rather shoestring budget, but I can provide a great deal more. Enough to train and equip a not insignificant force. Since my joining the Accords, I have gathered a force of clued-in mercenaries more than capable of coping with the supernatural. Some of them will be made available for you to hire on, as well as hire others as you see fit. From my examination of Angel Investigations, it seems clear to me that muscle alone will not handle them, but assembling that central group is something I'll leave to you. If you need them, the skills and abilities of Ms. Gard will be available to you, and you will have enough funds to hire another consultant from Monoc Securities if you need one, for your specific operation.”

Marcone was correct. Money alone couldn't solve all one's problems, but Thucydides's observation that war was not so much a matter of men but of money had survived the ages because of its underlying veracity. And the minimal budget Angel Investigations had to work with was mostly a result of the fact that the people they helped through Cordelia's visions rarely had the ability or willingness to pay much.

Wesley had given all this and more a great deal of thought on his way here from Los Angeles. He'd been unwilling to risk his books and weapons by checking them on a plane, so he'd driven up to Chicago, and that had given him more than enough time to think. He'd already been quite sure he'd be taking the offered job when he'd arrived in McAnally's, and Marcone's answers had pretty much cliched it for him. Marcone was a criminal, but he was, in his own way, an honest and honorable man. Given the larger picture, accepting the offered job was practically a given.

“I accept. Although, what exactly would be the official organization I'd be operating through?”

Marcone shrugged. “I'll leave that up to you. Once you decide, my Lawyers can handle handle the paperwork.” The man called Hendricks produced a contract. He handed it to Marcone, who gave it to Wesley to look over, speaking as the former Watcher did so. “If you are going to work for me, you will need to provide me with a sample of your hair and blood.” He raised a hand to halt any immediate, knee-jerk objections. “In the contract – which I will sign also – it stipulates that I can only use it if you betray me or my organization, or if you need to be located immediately and conventional means cannot find you. If at some point you cease your employment, the hair and blood will be returned to you. That particular section of the contract is magically binding on my part, if that alleviates any concern on your part.”

This gave Wesley some misgivings, but he understood Marcone's objectives with it. He had no intention of betraying Marcone, though...he'd had no intention of betraying Angel when he'd first started working at Angel Investigations. Still...it gave him pause, but he nodded. Ms. Gard produced two vials and a small knife. Wesley nicked his finger and let a few drops of blood fall into one vial, before removing a strand of hair and placing it in the other. The Valkyrie nodded to Marcone and sealed the vials. Wesley finished reading the contract, and signed. Marcone followed suit.

And with that, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, son of Roger Wyndam-Pryce, former Watcher of Faith Lehane and former employee and then leader of Angel Investigations became an employee of “Baron” Johnny Marcone, crime lord and Freeholding Lord on the Unseelie Accords.

“I do have one question.” Marcone asked, as he stood to leave. “These...Senior Partners. I understand that they are demons, but what exactly are they beyond that? Demon is not the most specific of terms. And do you have any idea on what their long term motivations are?”

“The Wolf, the Ram and the Hart are some of the oldest demons there are. These days, the commonly accepted estimation of their power – at least when all three of them are working together – is on par with Queen Mab or Queen Titania. Fortunately, like the Faerie Queens, their ability to harm or interfere with or harm mortals not bound to them is limited. They must act principally through their employees and lesser demons as their agents in the mortal sphere. As for their motivations, I can't say. They seem to be most interested in accumulating power for themselves by exploiting man's inherent inhumanity to man, and there is some indication they are working towards creating some sort of apocalypse, but that is speculation at best. In the short term, assume Wolfram and Hart is seeking to accumulate power, money and influence in the mortal and supernatural worlds for its own sake, and for local plans and operations. What specific plans they might have in Chicago, I frankly have no idea, but that is one of thing things I should like to find out, once I get started.”


	3. Up To Something

Disclaimer: The Dresdenverse and the Buffyverse are not mine. Anything you recognize is not mine. All characters, plots and concepts seen in this fic that are not from the Dresdenverse or the Buffyverse are mine.

Author's Note: To be perfectly honest, I'm not at all sure how well I got Harry Dresden's character in this. If I botched it, tell me (and maybe even shoot some advice my way in the review too, please).

Thanks for the reviews everyone.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 3: Up to Something

"Marcone's up to something." Sergeant Karrin Murphy said with finality as she entered the office of one Harry Dresden, Wizard Private Eye.

"He's a criminal scumbag. He's always up to something." Harry commented. "Although given that you're coming to me about it tells me its more than just his usual run of the mill crime." Harry was, if it was at all possible, more exhausted than usual. The recent truce in the Red Court-White Council War, in theory, should have been a bit of a respite. But between his Warden duties, setting up and dealing with the new Paranet, consulting for SI and his regular Private Investigation work...the newly arrived Wolfram and Hart had not made things any easier.

"He's got some kind of new private security company. They just bought a building yesterday. Oracle Securities. I think it has more to do with his new position as...Freeholding Lord, right? I still don't like that."

"Neither do I. But Marcone was the best of the available options, and at least he has a stake in keeping things calm around here, paranormally speaking."

"Yea. I agreed at the time, but still, makes him even harder to deal with. I'm a police officer first and foremost, and its my job to uphold the law." She sighed. "But anyway, the new CEO of the company is what bothers me. A Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. British national. Until four years he worked for the International Watchers Council." Harry's eyebrows went up at that. "You know the name? Yea. I looked into them. Screamed involvement in the supernatural. What are they?"

"A group of minor practitioners and clued-in straights that have been mucking around in the supernatural for...well, I'm not sure exactly how long. I'd have to ask Bob. They've never signed the Accords, and they've been, basically, at war with all three Vampire Courts their entire existence. They also deal with areas where the boundary between the Nevernever and our world are particularly thin. They call them Hellmouths. They have access to Archive that rival the White Council's and they they tend to focus the most the Black Court too. They've got some kind of superwoman at their disposal, called 'The Slayer' – Opinion's not exactly sure what she is, but she's at least five times as strong and fast as a normal human, and probably more. Most things that come up against her either try and kill her for the status it brings, or run screaming if they know its her. There's always another Slayer when one dies. My teacher told me he thinks its some kind of power that transfers on the death of its previous holder based on bloodlines or something like that. Not parent to child like the Archive – average life expectancy for a given slayer is about a year, I've heard. I've never actually dealt with them much. Can't imagine why one of them would be working for Marcone though."

"Well, this Wyndam-Pryce hasn't worked for the Council in four years." She shrugged. "I'm sure what exactly he's doing will turn up. I've noticed things don't tend to just sit when it comes to you."

"Thanks for that. Now you've gone and jinxed me." Which reminded him. "I talked to Bob about Wolfram and Hart."

"What did he have to say?"

"Well, he didn't know anything about the Law Firm itself, but he did have something to say about a trio of supercharged demons called 'The Wolf, the Ram and the Hart'. They're beyond old, and on par with a Faerie Queen, all three of them together. Fortunately for all of us, they can't do much directly to anyone who doesn't work for them. They're bad news. Bob really doesn't like talking about them. All anyone knows for sure is that they're always trying to increase their own power and influence by increasing the power and influence of whatever mortal front organization they're using. Supposedly they were behind the Spanish Inquisition, among other things. And...to make things even more fun, they're signatories of the Unseelie Accords as well. Well, Wolfram and Hart is, anyway." He looked down at the notes he'd made from his conversation with Bob, to see if he'd missed any of the high notes.

"I'll ask around, see if anyone know anything about this Wyndam-Pryce character." Harry added. "Maybe even pay a visit to his offices. I get the red carpet treatment at every place Marcone owns, after all."

"Only because it extends the lifespan of the buildings." Murphy replied. "Buildings you're in tend to catch fire."

"Hey! Not every fire in a building I'm in is my fault!"

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It had been a week since his arrival in Chicago, and three days since Oracle Securities had moved into its new offices. At Marcone's Order, Ms. Gard had already set up wards, and Wesley intended to see to it more were added as soon as possible. Wolfram and Hart may not have wizards of White Council level at easy disposal – at least not without risking the ire of the Wardens, and while the Senior Partners no doubt cared not a whit for the 'Laws of Magic', a full-scale Warden assault would profit no one. The recent elimination of so many Wardens during the recent war might change things, and Wesley believed in being prepared.

It had taken only a short time for Wesley to decide what a good cover for the organization would be. He'd toyed with the idea of a detective agency, but tossed the idea out soon after. The idea behind this organization Marcone was having him set up was principally to serve as Marcone's direct agency in the supernatural world of Chicago, and principally to oppose Wolfram and Hart. Angel Investigations, as much as it occasionally got distracted by the larger enemy, – in a sort of being unable to see the trees for the forest syndrome - was about helping people, on the smaller scale. A noble endeavor, but not the principle behind Oracle Securities. A private security firm, on the other hand, was convenient enough cover and suited to the task at hand. The name had been simple enough. Wesley may not be a Champion of the Powers that Be – but opposing Wolfram and Hart was clearly something the Powers were interested in, and Oracles, their servants, had been laid low by an agent of the Senior Partners.

Right now, most of what Wesley had to work with in terms of personnel were, as Marcone had said, mercenaries, all clued-in to the supernatural. There were other personnel – a few of Marcone's lawyers, for example, which had been a must, considering the enemy they were going to be fighting was just as adept at hiding behind legal technicalities and spin doctor lawyers as the best of organized crime. It was that fact that Wesley had had in mind when he decided to devote some resources to tracking down Lindsey McDonald. While the former Wolfram and Lawyer was not, as it were, an unambiguously – or even close to it – good person, neither, really was Wesley, or most of the people who were joining this little project. But McDonald had left Wolfram and Hart, and the Senior Partners didn't like the idea of their employees thinking they could just quit, so sooner or later they'd be going after him. From what Angel had told him about the circumstances leading up to his second – and final – departure from the firm, Lindsey really had reached a breaking point in his toleration of Wolfram and Hart and its practices. It was worth giving the man a call, anyway, if Wesley could figure out what number to call.

Minor talents and some of the focused practitioners out there in supernatural Chicago were also people he was looking to hire. None could offer both the breadth and depth of a White Council Wizard, but those were not particularly available for hire. In this he was limited by avoiding known breakers of the Seven Laws, but he was more than willing to consider – not that he'd yet approached anyone just yet – people who were distrusted by the White Council. There would be a place at Oracle Securities for anyone who could do the job, and people who had few other options and a desire to do some overall good – or just make money doing overall good – were people to look for. Wesley himself, was, he considered, a perfect example of the truth of that. A chance to do good was what he still had, even if in a different way than before.

He was interrupted from his reflections by the phone on his desk buzzing loudly, then the voice of one of the guards at the door spoke, "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Harry Dresden is here to see you." Recognizing that man was probably the first rule of survival in supernatural Chicago.

"Let him in and send him up to my office." Wesley replied without hesitation. Marcone had left specific instructions to give Dresden 'the red carpet treatment' whenever he showed up, and after looking into some of the Warden's exploits, Wesley considered that order only slightly overkill – it certainly did seem to extend the lifespan of the building in question.

It took a few minutes – Dresden would be unable to use the elevator, as his magic would short the entire contraption out – but the door to his office was opened and Dresden was let in. Wesley nodded to the guard who had opened the door. "You can wait outside. I believe I'll be quite safe with Mr. Dresden." The guard nodded and closed the door behind him. "Please, sit." Wesley said, indicating the chair on the other side of his desk. The wizard did so.

"How does a Watcher end up working for a man like Marcone?" Straight to the point.

"Would you like the long version or the short version?" Wesley asked. "I can give you either or, but I believe more at issue here is the presence of Wolfram and Hart in Chicago."

"You're familiar with them?"

"Quite. It was that familiarity that led Marcone to hire me for this position. I've been engaged in combating them for just under four years now, though I was doing it in Los Angeles."

"Did you come here just because Marcone waved his money under your nose?"

"Mr. Dresden, if I was interested just in the money, I would have taken up Wolfram and Hart's offer to join them. One of their number was particularly aggressive in attempting to recruit me. No. The group I had been working with in Los Angeles and I had a...falling out. The details of which I do not wish to give you. Needless to say, when Marcone gave the call, I was available. Los Angeles was and is my former compatriots' city." Then he added, "I'm not at all interested in doing a soulgaze with you, to establish trust or for any other reason. You soulgazed Marcone, and that is why you trust him. I work for him. If that is not enough for you, we'll have to get by that."

"I don't think trust is the exact word I would use." Dresden said. "He's a criminal scumbag, and nothing will ever change that. I respect him, to a degree, and certainly respect that he has principles, and that he has helped myself and my friends on several occasions."

"I hope at the very least we can be allies, Mr. Dresden. It will be a great deal easier to handle Wolfram and Hart if you are not hostile to Oracle Securities."

"We'll see." Dresden said. "What can you tell me about Wolfram and Hart? What I can expect with them in town. I could only find good details on the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart and their past projects, rather than this law firm."

"Well, expect a large number of Black Court vampires to move into Chicago. Where Wolfram and Hart go, Black Court tend to follow. Either as clients in the case of the more powerful ones, or as cheap muscle in the case of the young ones. I suspect that will be biggest thing we will have to be concerned about in terms of direct enemies, this early in the game. Witness intimidation – or extermination -, using a variety of dark curses and demonic magics against opposition lawyers is a favorite tactic as well. If you find yourself helping someone who is being targeted by Wolfram and Hart, your best tactic is to never let that person out of your sight."

Dresden grimaced visibly at the mention of Black Court vampires. "I take it the Slayer can't come by to deal with them."

"I'm not with the Council in any form, and of the two Slayers – yes, they are two now, but that is neither here nor there – one is in prison in Los Angeles, and the other is busy, I would presume, with whatever the Sunnydale Hellmouth is throwing at her this year."

"Do you have any idea how many Black Court they'll bring?"

"A few of the older ones and their extended followings. I read about how you dealt with Mavra and her nest, and as impressive as it was, a full frontal assault on the nest is not the best option, as many deaths as it may prevent in the civilian populace."

"Being one of the Good Guys means not letting innocent people die."

"Mr. Dresden, war is not a question of 'good guys, as you say, versus 'bad guys'. At best, its good versus evil on the larger scale, but if you try to save everyone, no one will be saved. Wolfram and Hart is not only global, but trans-dimensional as well. They own at least two hell dimensions just for their own failed employees, and they have branches in many more. Combating them is a long term endeavor and much akin, I think, to trench warfare."

"Do you know how they get along with the Nickelheads?" At Wesley's blank look, Dresden supplied, "The Denarians."

It took Wesley a few moments to remember exactly who Dresden had been referring to, even with the proper name. The Denarians had not been studied extensively by the Council, and the main reason was that their leader, a Nicodemus Archelone, tended to destroy any archives that contained records of him every century or so. He did that to Church records, after all. "From what little I know about the Denarians, they do not necessarily get along, but nor do they spend much time at odds with eachother. The Fallen and the Senior Partners are both similar in age, but they have radically different origins, as I understand it." Wesley paused, "I was wondering, incidentally, if you could help me."

"Depends on what kind of help you're looking for. I have a two day minimum."

"My financing comes entirely from Marcone. I thought you were too good to take his money. And at the moment, I'm just looking for some information."

"What about?"

"Undertown. Wolfram and Hart is well known name in the Demon community – just displaying their card is enough to keep most creatures away, to avoid risking the firm's attention. They will, I think, seek to establish firm control of any and all unaffiliated demons and inhabitants of Undertown that they can. And in general flood the place with their own minions. Cleaning out Undertown, I expect, will be a primary first step for Oracle Securities, though it may be the only step, depending on how things go."

"Well, Undertown is worse than the Labyrinth. If you're going to go down there, you'll need to make sure to bring a whole lot of thread. And swords." Dresden said. "As useful as guns can be, there are some pretty cramped quarters down there, and having a backup weapon is never a bad idea." Dresden didn't necessarily trust this guy. But Wolfram and Hart were unambiguously the bad guys in this equation, and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce seemed quite determined to see the demon lawyers brought down. It was much like, the wizard considered, the situation that lad led Harry to bring Marcone in, when he went into the Deeps. He proceeded to tell him more about Undertown and its inhabitants.

Marcone was up to something, this Wolfram and Hart was up to something, the Black Council was still out there, up to something without a doubt. The Red King wasn't going to just sit back and relax while the truce held. And people didn't act with the conviction Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was showing for money. So he had other motives.

_So what? Do I need to be up to something to keep up?_

Author's Note: Mostly the story will focus more on Wesley and Oracle Securities, but occasionally there will be other Dresden-focused sections, as well as scenes inside W&H Chicago. Wesley and Dresden will, of course, be teaming up several times in this fic, which if it happened in reality, would be so much badass awesomeness in one place the universe would probably explode.


	4. Complications

Disclaimer: BtVS, AtS and the Dresden Files are still not mine. I make no money off of this, and more's the pity. Any character you recognize is not mine. Any you don't is mine.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 4: Complications

“This....” Marcus Lott began, tossing a file lightly on the long table in the conference room. “This is an...unforeseen development. It presents an unanticipated complication to our operations here.” The graying pudgy man looked over the assembled lawyers of Wolfram and Hart Chicago's Special Projects Division. As usual, one of those lawyers was considering, the old fat bastard was stating the obvious. It was times like these that Richard Carlise was amazed his boss could pull his pants on in the morning, because all available evidence suggested he didn't have two brain cells to rub together.

Of course, he couldn't let his scorn show on his face. Lott had the authority to order his death. Had that authority over everyone in the room, except for the dead man from the L.A. office standing in the corner of the room. Even if he hadn't been higher ranked than Lott, he was still perfectly safe. The rest of the young up and comers who made up the Special Projects Division here in Chicago weren't so lucky. So he kept his expression neutral. _Not that he'd be able to notice if I_ _ **did**_ _let it show._

“It doesn't change the overall project.” Holland Manners interjected from the corner. “The instructions from the Senior Partners were very precise: None of the majors players here in Chicago are to be given sufficient provocation under the Accords as to allow a war. Any war would be global in scope, but be caused by a local situation. If any of you give sufficient provocation to anyone, expect the Senior Partners to see to it that your head is offered up on a platter to the offended party as apology. Right now, securing control of any and all unaffiliated groups and players here in Chicago. Either they will work for Wolfram and Hart or they will be expendable. Marcone's status on the Accords is the same as ours, even if his is unprecedented.”

Lott was distinctly unhappy at being upstaged by Manners. That the Senior Partners had given more real authority to a man who had been killed a vampire he was responsible for resurrecting, rather than to the person who theoretically should have that authority had to burn. His expression still neutral, Carlise hoped the stress gave Lott a heart attack. Carlise didn't actually have to worry about Manners, though. And Lott was hopeless. Of all the other lawyers in the room, only the tall blonde sitting across from him was actually a threat. The damn bitch-

“Richard,” Lott's words – he'd been going on about 'the plan' for the past few minutes as Carlise internalized - finally interrupted his thoughts, “Have you made any progress?”

“I have. Gregory of Arles has agreed to move to Chicago with his followers. He should be here within a week. However, Despite numerous offers and enticements, Mavra has patently refused to come back to Chicago – I can only assume Dresden's assault on her nest a few years back has made her wary of the city. We still haven't managed to locate Drusilla, and it seems William the Bloody has gone and gotten himself a soul.” After the deaths of Lothos, The Master and Kakistos, there were only so many Black Court vampires in the United States – or the entire Western Hemisphere, for that matter, since the Red Court tended to keep Black Court out of their territory in Latin America - that possessed significant followings and power, or the reputations to put together a good-sized following. Mavra, 'Spike' and Drusilla had all been on that list, but it seemed Spike would no longer be on it. Gregory of Arles, coming up on his 900th birthday soon, on the other hand, had agreed, moving from his nest on the Cleveland Hellmouth – No, I'm not interested in taking on the Slayer, thank you very much – to Chicago. Unlike some Master Vampires, Gregory just liked to kill. Which made him perfect for the job of helping Wolfram and Hart seize control of Undertown.

“Two Vampires with souls now?” The blonde woman interjected, “One was an interesting curiosity. Now its a two, and a trope. Make it three and we'll have a cliché on our hands.”

“Clever, Denna.” Carlise replied. “And how is your little project going? Getting us magical muscle to help us handle Dresden can't be easy.”

“Actually, Richard, Diocletian has agreed to come to Chicago with his apprentice and keep Dresden off our backs.”

“Diocletian? The man is insane. His choice of name alone should tell you that. He's just as likely to turn on us as kill Dresden.”

“And Gregory of Arles is any more stable?” Denna Frost sniped back.

“He's a Black Court Vampire. He's not supposed to be stable, but what he is is a predictable. Diocletian is as mad as a hatter, and has the long-term planning skill of Hitler and the megalomania to match.” Which is to say he had no long-term planning skill. Invading Russia? Really? Even Wolfram and Hart had shied away from taking Hitler on as a client, though several members of his inner circle had been clients, and been defended by Wolfram and Hart lawyers at Nuremberg. “Dresden will eat him for lunch.”

“He's managed to evade the Wardens for the better part of 80 years, and has numerous contacts and allies in the Nevernever and some of the nearer Hell Dimensions. I'll remind you he's also managed to come out on top in fights with both Donald Morgan and Anastasia Luccio-”

“Managing to escape with his tail between his legs is not the same thing as coming out on top.” Carlise interrupted. “Dresden has repeatedly shown that he is capable of taking on enemies far above his-”

“Enough!” Lott actually slammed his fist on the table. “Dresden's opposition was already anticipated and planned for. Diocletian will keep Dresden off our backs, either by killing him or distracting him. Even if Dresden manages to defeat Diocletian, the whole process should distract him enough and keep him off balance enough for us to solidify our position in Undertown, at which point he won't be able to dislodge us, and operations can proceed apace. Recruiting is our primary objective. The Cleveland office has also begun efforts to recruit on both sides of the Hellmouth, and sending the fruits of those efforts onto here. Chicago will belong to Wolfram and Hart, and thus, the Senior Partners.”

_Wow._ Carlise thought, not entirely sarcastically, _the fat bastard actually managed to have some steel in his spine when he said that. It won't last though._

AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF

Paperwork. The Watchers Council had thrived on the stuff, and these days, in the small, private corners of his mind that still held a bit of whimsy, he was of the belief that somewhere in the halls of the Council Headquarters in London there was a place where paperwork actually bred. It would certainly explain how there was also so much of it, even when there had only been one Slayer.

Oracle Securities, though while generating infinitely less paperwork than the Council ever did, was still creating more of it than Wesley was willing to deal with. Fortunately, there were clerks for most of the mundane stuff, but the fact remained that setting up an enterprise the size and scope of Oracle Securities could not be done without extensive groundwork, and much of it couldn't just be fobbed off on others. He was creating an army here – albeit a small one – and he had to establish tactical doctrine, training – the mercenaries he had to work with were hardened veterans yes, but not many of them had the slightest idea how to use a sword or any other close combat weapon except for their fists or maybe a combat knife – equipment profiles, command structure.

On that last one, Wesley was aided by the fact that of the mercenaries he had working for him, most of them had tended to gravitate to one Mark Farrel as their leader. If you passed the former U.S. Marine in the street, you'd not think much of him, assuming he was out of uniform. But after spending just a few minutes in his company, and watching him at the firing range set up in the building's basement, Wesley had a healthy respect for his cold, deadly ability. Not only was he good at the job, but he was very willing and able to kill 'those damned unholy abominations'. Mark Farrel was a man who took his religion and his god very seriously, even before he'd discovered the existence of vampires, demons, and the rest. Wesley almost envied his conviction and faith. At the end of the day, he didn't. That the old pagan gods existed was undeniable, even if most of them were dormant, and the existence of the Judeo-Christian God was also not actually in doubt, in Wesley's mind, but the details were something Wesley – and a great many Watchers – hadn't really accepted. Like a great many Watchers, he hovered somewhere around a sort of agnostic deism. If there was a 'God' in the Judeo-Christian sense, then he was incompetent, malevolent or of limited power like every other of the old gods.

“I like the ammunition mix you have going – hollow points and tracers, with regular bullets – but what the hell is with swords and stakes? This isn't the renfair. Its the modern era, and we're not wizards, so we don't have to worry about technology breaking on us.”

“The value of utility of modern technology and weapons is not in doubt. I agree with you. Guns are extremely useful in fighting demons and vampires, but they are not the be all end all of combat with them. Most species of demon will go down if you shoot it enough times, but not all will, and Black Court Vampires will only die from regular bullets if you shoot them so much their entire body falls apart or you blow their head off. Moreover, swords and stakes never run out of ammunition, and most of what we'll be fighting is faster than human. A gun does you no good if you don't get a chance to use it before a demon sinks its claws into you. Preparedness is not a bad thing. For Black Court, I've found that shooting them in the kneecaps and then staking them when the fall over is a highly effective tactic.” He paused as an idea occurred to him. “Speaking of which, we need some white phosphorous grenades. There are very few demons – or lawyers – that enjoy being set on fire. It is a nearly universal cleanser, in that respect. You wouldn't happen to know anyone who could supply those, along with any other similar products we may need?”

Mark considered. “I know a few. But white phosphorous? That's a little too much legal heat, don't you think?”

“Maybe. Certainly more than we're working with here, but there are a number of times during my time in Los Angeles when having sufficient firepower would have been a very good thing. But it does merit bringing to the attention of Marcone. I imagine this would be one of things I should bring to him. Grenades – and particularly white phosphorous – being particularly...untidy.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out two pistols, which he slid into holsters at his waist, before standing and opening the weapons cabinet behind the desk. He pondered the assortment of axes, swords, knives and crossbows before settling on a sword and buckling it – still in its sheath – to his belt as well.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yes. You as well. Put a team together – no more than five others. Wolfram and Hart will not have had much time to get their forces into Undertown, which means that we can get a feel for the lay of the land before things get started. What kinds of demons live where in Undertown, where the good portals to the Nevernever are, the clan and territory boundaries and disputes. That sort of thing.”

“These Hell Dimensions you mentioned. Where do they fit into all this?” Mark asked, as he followed Wesley out of the room. “I mean, I get that the Nevernever is some kind of parallel world thing – that White Court guy, Thomas Raith took us into The Deeps through there, but I admit the specifics are a bit beyond me.”

“The Nevernever is the inter-dimensional highway, as it were. It connects to all the various other dimensions. 'Hell Dimension' is a catch all term for all the dimensions that aren't Earth, or one of the realms of Faerie. Its not necessarily an entirely accurate term – Pylea certainly isn't that bad in of itself, when considered objectively – but it is the term used.”

“Pylea?” As they walked towards the elevator Mark pointed at five of the mercenaries they passed and gestured for them to follow him.

“Charming little place, in its own way. The forests are quite spectacular, but the locals leave something to be desired. Unpleasant at best, they call humans 'cows' and use them as manual labor and food.”

“Is that all we are to these things? Food?”

“Not to all of them. Seventy-odd percent of them though, yes, probably. The Wolf, the Ram and the Hart probably don't consider us food such much as convenient tools, and I think we'd give some of the Old Ones indigestion, though I'd rather not test that.” The elevator reached the bottom and the six of them went into one of the unmarked black vans sitting in the parking lot. “Its a simple enough mission. We'll go in, kill some demons, capture a few, and come back to base. Assuming you're all as good as Marcone claimed, we should be back by the end of the day, and all of us alive and well.”

They drove to a nearby and – importantly - currently empty and unused warehouse. Beneath the building was an old and theoretically – though not anymore, if it ever was - blocked up subway access that served as an entrance to Undertown. Wesley had considered setting up Oracle Securities here, to make getting down into Undertown even easier, but he figured the massive back door into the headquarters was probably a bad idea. It might do to buy the building, to make sure it did stay empty though.

Whatever the ultimate fate of the building was or wasn't going to be, they were in Undertown within fifteen minutes of leaving HQ.

“Petrovich, take point.” Farrel said to one of them. The pale Russian nodded and flipped a pair of night-vision goggles down over his eyes and headed first down the abandoned subway tunnel. Everyone else but Wesley followed suit. Wesley just cast a small spell to give himself the same effect. His dabbling could do that to himself, but he didn't really have the technique, power or control to do it others. And doing to others somewhat skirted the edges of the Second Law. What he was essentially doing was giving himself owlesque sight, and while it technically wasn't a violation, he didn't think the Wardens would see it that way, and it didn't do to get in the habit of doing what Wardens might call Lawbreaking, even if they weren't likely in the least to catch you – _this time_.

Slowly, quietly, they made their way through the tunnel, when they heard the sound of thumping up ahead. Petrovich turned back and gestured to Wesley. Whatever it was up there, the Russian didn't recognize it – which wasn't that surprising.

There were three creatures there, Wesley saw. Tall, muscled and with curling horns like a ram. He couldn't see the color of their skin, but he knew it would be a light brown. Fyarl Demons. They looked to fighting – eachother. Sparring, really, given that the third one seemed to be laughing and commenting dumbly from the snatches of words he caught. Of course Wesley was fluent in Fyarl.

“What are they?” Petrovich whispered, and Wesley gestured him to join the rest of the group back a small bit. When they were both back, Wesley answered.

“Fyarl Demons. Demonic foot soldiers. They're all over the Nevernever. Fighting wars on behalf of whoever can bully them into fighting, or pay them. None too bright, but strong and tough. Perfect warrior breed. Oh, and don't let them sneeze on you.”

“Sneeze on me?” Mark cocked an eyebrow, “What, am I going to catch from them?”

“Their Mucus hardens on contact with open air, and acts as a paralytic agent on anyone who it touches. Its a devil to get off, though once its off the Paralysis wears off over a bit of time. If any of you happen to have silver on hand, keep it in reserve – Silver is poison to them. Otherwise, riddling it full of lead works well enough.”

“I didn't expect to be facing fucking werewolves.” One of the other mercs noted as they moved closer to the Fyarl to begin firing.

“Silver is actually quite useful on a number – small number – of particularly vicious or difficult to kill demons. I'd suggest keeping a single magazine of silver-tipped bullets on hand, at the very least for dealing with Fyarl. And silver bullets – unless their ancestral – only work on one particular breed of werewolf, actually.” He paused. “We need to capture one alive.”

“Why? So you can harvest its snot?”

“Actually, to interrogate it. Fyarl are rarely seen without a master or employer of some kind. If one dies or no longer needs their services, then they'll find another. I'd like to know who or what these ones are working for.” The Fyarl, finally, it seemed, had noticed them, and were turning towards them. “Feel free to open fire any time now.” Wesley commented, as the three demons charged towards them. Wesley pulled his pistols out and began to open fire with both, and the mercenaries opened fire with their automatic weapons – though they weren't on full auto. The sound of the shots echoed quite a bit in the enclosed space, and the Fyarl did keep coming, but by the time they arrived, only one of them had. One of the others had fallen to its knees, and while not dead, was incapacitated enough to be easily dispatchable, and the other had simply died after enough hits. Wesley dropped his pistols and drew his sword, parrying a swing from his fists with his blade, his sword cutting deep into its arm and throwing off its aim. Wesley pulled the sword back, dripping black blood, and then held it at the Fyarl's throat.

“Yield.” He told it in Fyarl. The demon said nothing. Wesley pressed the point harder, “If you attempt to use your mucus against me, this sword will be puncturing your throat and severing your spinal column before it paralyzes me.” The deadly tone in his voice was clear even to the dim-witted demon. It talked, though it didn't have much to say that was useful. Still, Wesley waited until it was done talking, then thrust the blade through its neck and pulling it out sideways, severing the demon's head for good measure.

“Well, what did it say?” Mark asked.

“It says it was sent here by a sorcerer. It doesn't know the sorcerer’s name, True or otherwise, but he did demand to be called 'Your Excellency'. Apparently, said sorcerer will be coming to Chicago soon. Which is certainly not something we need. Complications.”

Author's Note: Diocletian is entirely my character. He's a Lawbreaking Sorcerer who goes by the name Diocletian so as to avoid allowing anyone to know his True Name. His apprentice, on the other hand, is a canon character from BtVS, AtS or The Dresden Files. I won't say who, but feel free to guess in a review.


	5. Preparing for War

Disclaimer: The Buffyverse belongs to many people and organizations. I am not one of them. The same holds true for The Dresden Files.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 5: Preparing for War

“White Phosphorous Grenades, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce? This is Chicago, not the Middle East.” Marcone said over steepled fingers, leaning back slightly in his chair. A man in Marcone's position did not do business from only one place, and Wesley would estimate that he had at least two dozen safehouses of various quality and security scattered around the city and its suburbs, let alone anywhere else. At the moment, Wesley was meeting his employer in a health club/brothel called 'Executive Priority Health'. The highest floor contained several offices for the administration of the whole place as well as one for when Marcone chose to operate out of there.

“Wolfram and Hart is not your typical enemy either, Mr. Marcone. And more importantly, while Chicago may not resemble a warzone in the traditional sense, Undertown certainly will. Wolfram and Hart will be active there, as a primary stage of operations here, and a great deal of the early combat will be there. They will find it will not be easy to make the entire place theirs, but by the time the fight there dies down to just a low-burn, Undertown will be, in part, in their hands. The more firepower I have to work with, the less of Undertown they'll have to work with when they move on from Undertown to whatever else they have planned for Chicago.”

“You only intend to use them in Undertown?”

“Of course. I'm not going to firebomb Wolfram and Hart's offices. It wouldn't do anything, anyway, in the long term. Kill a dozen of their Lawyers and they'll have every opening filled within a week. At most. Leaving aside the Standard Perpetuity Clause.”

“Standard Perpetuity Clause?”

“Even death isn't a way to leave working at Wolfram and Hart. If they decide they require your services or skills, they simply bring you back to keep working. Anyone who works for them has it in their contract, once they reach a certain level. Not everyone who reaches that level and dies is utilized, but it's still there.”

“If the authorities find out about your possession of these grenades, I will be forced to throw you under the bus, you do understand that?”

“Perfectly. But I am quite confident that I can evade the authorities on this matter.”

Marcone, fingers still steepled, considered. “You were right to bring something like this to me – it is a lot of legal heat. But, then, you'll be the one taking the heat if it comes to that. And you do know this business. Very well. Buy what you need – though I trust you to consider a reasonable line of what is suitable. Undertown or nor, there are somethings that I simply will not allow into my city.”

“Of course.” As soon as he was on the elevator down, he called Mark Farrel on his cell. “Farrel? Yes. Marcone has given his approval. Contact the arms dealer and arrange a meeting.”

“Just White Phosphorous Grenades, or other things?”

“At the moment, that's the only specific thing I have in mind, but I'll no doubt have so more to order, when we meet.”

“Alright. I'll tell him.” Farrel hung up, and Wesley pocketed his phone.

He'd been back in his apartment for perhaps five minutes when there was a knock on the door. Which was odd. He'd set up wards. They weren't that great defensively, but they were good enough for at least warning him when someone was coming – and if they were human or not. He stood, setting down the tome he'd been going through and took a sword in one hand and double-checking that he did have a pistol holstered. Wesley opened the door, sword not raised entirely, but so it could be easily used if needed.

“Hey, Wesley!” Lindsey McDonald looked much the same as he always had, though his hair was somewhat longer, and he had some interesting tattoos – Wesley thought he recognized them, though what they were didn't come to him immediately, so he'd have to check – one on his neck and one on the back of each hand that he could see. “What's with the sword? As I recall, you were the one who wanted to get in touch with me.”

“When someone knocks on my door without my warning wards going off, I have a tendency to worry somewhat.”

“Oh, that would be these,” He pointed at the tattoo on his neck. “Keeps me invisible to any and all magical or technological surveillance.”

“Clever.” Now he remembered them. “But as I recall, only demons can use them.”

“It seems my evil hand,” He held up the hand in question, and there was just the faintest hint of sarcastic mocking in the words 'evil hand', “is demon enough for the tattoos to work.”

“Yes. Angel told me about that little episode. Of course, Lilah also shared the details of your rather dramatic departure from Wolfram and Hart.” Lindsey actually smirked a little at that. Wesley sidestepped so that Lindsey could enter and lowered his sword. He didn't actually invite Lindsey in, more out of habit these days than anything else.

The lack of invite, predictably, had no effect on Lindsey, and he walked into Wesley's apartment. “I heard you and Angel had some kind of falling out. Never expected you to leave L.A. Or for Angel to let you. Figured he'd realize he needed you and your skills too much. Forgive you for whatever the hell it was that happened between you. 'Course, I never expected to see a White Hat like you end up working for the Outfit.”

“These days, you'll find my 'hat', as you put it, is not so white, if it ever really was. Your 'hat' is hardly that white either, which is why I wanted to find you.” He chuckled darkly, self-deprecatingly. “And I suspect that Angel will never get around to truly forgiving me before I die. Los Angeles is his city. That's why you left it, even after you departed from Wolfram and Hart. And I'm not particularly interested in forgiving him, or his friends, even if they were interested in forgiving me.”

“His friends? Not your friends?” Not a particularly difficult change to pick up on, lawyer or not.

“Indeed. They're not my friends any longer. They made their choice.” There was no pain, or spite in his words, and he felt none, not any more. It was a fact of reality. He understood why they had made that choice, and it hadn't made dealing with the pain any easier when he'd felt it, but at this point he was past that. It was just something he had to deal with – like his expulsion from the Council four years earlier. A fact of his life. His new reality. He decided to proceed to the point. “I assume you know why I've been trying to contact you. And that your answer is yes, or you probably wouldn't have come to Chicago.”

“I'm not one of the good guys-”

“That is a given. Neither, really, is Marcone, or much of anyone who works at Oracle Securities.” Wesley remarked. “I'm still doubtful as to my own membership in the vaunted 'good guy' club, at this point.”

“But that doesn't matter. Wolfram and Hart....they are...” he scoffed a little, voice trailing off. “When I found out about what they were doing to those people. Where they got my evil hand from. I'm sick of them, but I'm not interested in really risking my life going toe to toe with them.”

“Marcone is a Freeholding Lord, and so is Wolfram and Hart. Assuming you don't go out and actively fight them and their lackeys, you're protected under the Accords. I wanted you to take charge of Oracle Securities' legal team. You know how Wolfram and Hart works, inside and outside of the courtroom. Going up against them in the courtroom. Defeating them at their own game.”

“A tempting prospect. I don't care about some greater good...but they...they're asking for a whole lot of payback from a whole lot of people. How much money are we talking?” Wesley gave him a figure.

“Marcone is hardly expecting to make a profit, but if there are times when you – or the others on your team - get money for Oracle by winning a case, then I'm sure I can see to it that some of that goes to you as a bonus.” No. Lindsey was a very gray person, and it was a testament to how very 'black' Wolfram and Hart was that he was so disgusted by it, and its practices. But money and power was what had drawn Lindsey to Wolfram and Hart in the first place, and while he couldn't pay Lindsey the kind of paycheck Wolfram and Hart could, there was no going back to the firm for him anyway. Leaving once he'd gotten away with. His second departure had burned all the bridges. Trusting him might be going a bit far, but trusting him to act in his own interest, and on his own hate for his former employers was enough.

“When can I start?”

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There was, Wesley decided, a universal underlying insanity to all arms dealers.

Not that Wesley was throwing stones – he couldn't. These days, and especially in the darkest moments after his exile from Angel Investigations, when he'd sunk so low as to sleep with Lilah, loathing himself even at the height of the act, he doubted his own sanity.

But it wasn't a particularly intense degree of insanity. No. He'd done some business with an arms dealer named Emil when he'd still been in Los Angeles, from time to time, and like him, the man he was meeting with now had that same underlying insanity. A mixture of disregard for human life, the slightest hint of sadism, an unhealthy interest in all things that go 'boom'. They didn't even have the 'soulless' excuse. Then, so did every criminal and evil human, generally speaking. Hitler had made many deals with a great many demons and other evils during his reign, but he'd managed to keep a hold of his own soul. Which only made his crimes worse.

Trent Baldwin – probably not his legal name, but one he went by, none the less – was, however, a highly efficient man, from what Farrel had told him. He got what you asked for, no questions asked. Quickly. And, as a bonus, he was also knowledgeable – to a point, anyway – about the supernatural. He wasn't an expert, but he'd seen things.

“White Phosphorous Grenades, incendiary rounds, Dragon's Breath shells.” He said, “I can handle that easily enough, get them to you within a week, at most. Anything else?”

“I need an easily concealable multiweapon of some kind.” Wesley said. “Including a stake launcher or something like it.”

Baldwin nodded, considering. “I might have something that could suit your needs. The stake launcher would need to be attached – not a difficult proposition – but otherwise...” He got up and went over to a cabinet. They were meeting in the man's penthouse suite in downtown Chicago. Dealing weapons across the globe was a risky business, both in terms of legal ramifications, and in terms of the risk from your competitors or from disappointed clients. But it was also highly lucrative. Baldwin came back with a wrist-guard of some kind and put it on. He stood and held his arm down. A sword slid out, from a previous collapsed state smoothly into his hand. “Collapsible sword. Usually comes with a grappling hood launcher, but we can swap that out for a stake launcher, if you need that.” He took it out, and handed it to Wesley. “Here, give it a test run. This is my showpiece copy, but I'll get you a separate one with the rest of your order, if you decide it works for you.” Wesley put it on and stood to test it, putting some room between himself and Baldwin. The man's bodyguard tensed a little, but didn't draw his gun. It was a fluid motion, and it only took a careful flick of the wrist, really, to get it to come out. His hand closed around the handle easily after that, and he gave it a few experimental swings. Excellent balance as well.

“I'll take it.” He – and he found himself wishing he didn't have to – took the device off and gave it back to Baldwin. “How much for the whole lot?”

It wasn't cheap, but then, it wasn't his money, per se, and he was preparing for war. Better to spend the money and buy weapons you won't need but can use later then hoard it and not have weapons you need, and thus lose people you _can't_ use later.


	6. Enter the Black Court

Disclaimer: I do not own the Dresden Files or the Buffyverse. I do own any and all original characters and content seen in this chapter.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 6: Enter The Black Court

Undertown had many connections to the Nevernever. It was from these ways and portals that so many demons, fae, and other inter-dimensional creatures found their way here. Wandering first from their own dimensions into the Nevernever, and from thence to other dimensions, including Earth. Such as the small clan of Wyldfae – Goblins, in particular – that Wesley, Mark and the other mercenaries with them on patrol had found. Wesley had no particular issue with goblins – they tended to leave humans alone, unless stronger fae or demons bullied them into working for them, but apparently the Black Court vampires they were watching plow their way through the goblins with cold iron weapons did have issues with them. Or more likely, they just wanted them out of the way. Wolfram and Hart had no love for any of the Fae, or the Faerie Queens. They were demons, and they used demons.

The fight for Undertown had started, and the Black Court had arrived. It was four Black Courtiers versus thirty-odd goblins at the moment, but armed with their powerful resistances and cold iron, the goblins did not likely stand much of a chance.

The six humans were currently standing on a ledge, overlooking a 'cavern' in Undertown as the battle ranged beneath them. He nodded to the mercenaries. “Feel free to open fire at will.” If he could, he wanted to keep as many of the Goblins alive as possible, if nothing else than to be there to get in the way of future Wolfram and Hart forces. “But try not to hit the goblins.”

“They're inhuman abominations.” Mark said, as he brought his weapon to bear.

“They're also something Wolfram and Hart wants to get rid of. The enemy of my enemy is my tentative ally.”

“I don't think that's how the saying goes...” All five mercenaries opened fire, and began to fill the Vampires with lead. The tracer rounds piercing them burned, and one of them had so many in so quick a span of time that it burst into flames, collapsing into ash. The rest were not dead, but they disengaged themselves from fighting the goblins and charged at them, leaping onto the ledge. Wesley had a stake in hand and began grappling with one immediately, and the mercenaries found themselves reaching for the stakes he had insisted they carry, despite their own protests about the merits of their modern weapons. Mark and another mercenary were dealing with the second vampire between them, but hadn't quite staked it. The third was out of Wesley's vision, but he could hear the sound of fighting behind him.

Wesley lacked Slayer-strength, but these vampires were fledglings, and they relied entirely on their strength, rather that finesse, skill or technique to win their battles for them. Using that against the vampire he was fighting, he managed to knock it to the ground and drove his stake into its heart. With a scream it was just so much dust.

The other two vampires were having better luck, unfortunately. Wesley had been fighting vampires for over four years – thought at first he had been the very face of incompetence, in Sunnydale. The one Mark and one other were fighting against was still undead, but at least hadn't managed to kill anyone. The other had snapped the neck of one of the mercenaries, and thrown the body aside. Wesley joined the fight, and his distraction allowed one of the others to stake it. As its dust collapsed to the ground, the last vampire was dusted as well.

Wesley went over to the dead mercenary. He could all but feel Mark's anger. One of his men had died on his watch. They were mercenaries, but they were loyal to eachother. He checked the man's mouth, on the off chance there was blood there. None. Good.

Unfortunately, they didn't have time for sentiment. “Let's go. Take him with us. He'll just be food for something if we leave him here.”

Mark scowled but nodded to two of his men to pick up the body and carry it between them.

“One of my men just died Wesley.” Mark said, catching up to the ex-Watcher as he went ahead of the group.

“You're a soldier. This is a war.” Wesley replied. “It is not a happy circumstance when people die in war, but they do. Black Court Vampires are many times stronger than humans, and we were extremely lucky these were only fledglings.”

Mark breathed deep in anger, fist clenched. “If we'd been able to just paste the whole room-”

“Then maybe you'd have gotten another, if we were lucky with the tracers. Bullets do not kill vampires. The best way to fight a vampire, if you have to, is to keep distance between it and yourself. There's a reason I have my sword with me. If I'd had the room to, I'd have used my sword against the vampire. It keeps the enemy far enough away they can't just get in and snap your neck that easily, and cutting off a vampire's head with a sword is easier than getting a wooden stake through its heart.”

“Then you and I...we're going to see to it that my men have swords, and know how to use them.” Mark said coldly.

“Done, and done.” Wesley said. “I'd hoped I'd be able to convince you and your men to add swords to your arsenal without someone dying-” Mark grabbed Wesley by the front of his shirt and made to slam him against the tunnel wall. Wesley got loose of his grip and stepped back.

“Was Brian dying planned? Were you-”

“No.” Wesley said. And that was true. “As I said, I wanted to avoid anyone dying just to get you to use swords.” Again, true. He was, if it came down to the wire, willing to let people die, let his soldiers die, if it advanced the larger purpose. But he wasn't one to spend the lives of his men pointlessly. “But the fact of the matter is that his death had served a purpose. Let his death not be entirely meaningless.”

Mark sighed again. He knew he was being a little irrational. He was angry. At himself, for losing a man. And he was redirecting it at Wesley.

The former marine still wasn't 100% sure how he felt about the Englishman. For Mark, life wasn't entirely black and white, but it was pretty close. He put people and things into a variety of mental boxes. Like most people. But there was no putting a box around the man. He was competent – sometimes almost frightfully so. He was cold...he had a certain...edginess to him. It reminded him of some of the more...intense marines, or other soldiers he'd fought alongside. Mark didn't trust him...but not because he didn't think him trustworthy...but more because there wasn't anything to trust.

Yea. It hadn't made sense to him when he'd tried to put his thoughts on the subject into words either.

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Wesley was back in his apartment that night, making notes on everything the patrols had found in or about Undertown, and the situation there, regardless of whether or not he'd been in charge of the patrol in question. A picture of what was going in Undertown was beginning to form, and the clearer and larger the picture was, the better for Oracle Securities in the long term. Knowledge was power, and Wesley had been applying his tactical mind to the knowledge gleaned, and thus how best to use it for power.

A phone call interrupted him from his work, and he answered the ringing mobile without checking the number. “Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.” He said.

“Wes.” The familiar female voice tugged a little at his iron resolve. They had, after all, once been friends. But he also felt a small flash of happiness. She was alive and well. Good.

“Cordelia. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” His tone, though, was cold, terse. They weren't friends anymore, after all. She'd made her choice – not that he had expected her to pick anything different – he'd made his choice...everyone made a choice, and now everyone was living from there. Choice was all humans really had, at the end of the day.

“Three things. First of all, thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know what. Rescuing Angel. Looking for me. Giving what you found to Angel. After everything that happened.” She paused, “I ascended to a higher plane. Found I didn't like it, came back down. Came back without my memory and turns out I picked up an evil hitchhiker along the way, but that's beside the point. Its dealt with, anyway. But...Wes...at some point, not, you and I are really going to need to have words about what happened.”

“If you didn't call me to berate me, the please, get to the point.”

“Look, I don't know what it is you're doing in Chicago. I'd like to think you're still fighting the good fight. I had a vision. Of something that's going to happen in Chicago, in less than an hour. The PTB have never given me a vision for something that's going to happen so far away, and since it just so happens to be in the city where you are, I figure the whole point is for me to tell you.”

“Go on.”

“There's a woman, 20ish, black hair. She's fighting a vampire in a warehouse.” Cordelia gave an address. “She's going to kill it, but then she's going to get ambushed by a whole lot more.” She sighed, “Look...Wes. Good luck.” Cordelia hung up. Wesley knew it could only be Black Court. Cordelia would never have been in a position to encounter White or Red Court Vampires in Sunnydale or Los Angeles and thus he doubted Angel would ever have told her, since it never came up. Besides, if she knew of more than one type, she'd have said something. If talking to someone who was somewhat – or even very – clued in about the supernatural, and they talked about Vampires without saying their court – and there were no cues earlier in the conversation - it was a pretty good guess they meant Black Court. They were the only breed of vampire that was actually undead, and also the one that was the most visible, and the ones that went out and actually did a lot of hunting, in the way popular myth claimed they did.

Even as he gathered his gear, he was calling Mark. “Mark. Grab your gear and meet me at this location.” He supplied it, “Call your men and have them meet us there. We'll be fighting Black Court, so plan accordingly. You have the Dragon's Breath shells Baldwin got us?” The grenades, shells and incendiary bullets, along with the collapsible sword, had arrived a short time after they'd gotten back after their first tussle with the Black Court that had seen one of Mark's men die.

“Yea.”

“Bring those. We may be fighting a large number. Have your men bring as many as possible as well.” Before Mark could say anything else, Wesley had hung up, grabbed his keys and was headed downstairs. When he arrived at the address Cordelia had provided, he went into the Warehouse, in time to see the tail end of the first fight Cordelia had mentioned.

A young woman and a vampire were standing in an open space near the entrance of the warehouse. The woman was unarmed, but didn't seem the slightest bit afraid as the vampire charged at her. Thrusting out her hand, the woman shouted, “ _Expello!”_ The vampire snarled as it was driven back at least a dozen feet. Thrown back would be a more accurate term. A not unimpressive feat of magic. Adopting its demon face again, the vampire tried again, given that there really wasn't any other tactic it could employ, and once again the woman cast the spell and threw it back. Wesley would all but feel the anger rolling off it and this time as it charged, it made a mistake – it left itself wide open. The woman didn't cast her spell this time, and Wesley readied the stake launcher on his wrist, looking for an angle with which to fire, when the vampire reached her, lunging at her neck – and impaling itself on a stake the woman had retrieved from her belt. The dust scattered to the ground. The woman didn't turn, but from her words, she knew he was there.

“You could've helped.” Wesley approached her.

“It looked as it you had it in hand. Actually was trying to find a good angle to stake it without hitting you.” She turned and he lifted his wrist, pulling back his sleeve a bit to show her.

“Not bad.” He heard laughter, and they both turned to see at seven more vampires drop down from the upper level of the warehouse.

“Why did you follow us from Cleveland, hm?” One of them, clearly the leader of the little band, “No matter. You fell right into the little trap. And we even get a bonus.” It nodded at Wesley. “Two wanna be Slayers for the price of one. I call that a win.”

“I don't think you'll find us easy prey.” With a flick, Wesley's collapsible sword was in hand.

“Not just a wanna be Slayer. This guy thinks he's James Bond!” Another commented. “Dibs on that sword though.”

The Vampires immediately charge at the two of them, and the woman, with another spell, knocked a large crate from its position on the top of a pile, narrowly missing one of the vampires. Still they get to her, and though distracted by fending off the vampires going at him, Wesley could see the strain it was putting on her to throw all three of the vampires going at her back.

With another swing, Wesley sliced the hand of one of the vampires off. It would regrow, in time, but at the moment all it was dealing with was pain, and was out of the fight for the moment. The woman threw her stake at another vampire, using her magic to drive it through its heart. She was, when it came to magic, a one-trick pony, it seemed. Just kinetomancy, which was nothing to sneeze at. But she'd left herself unarmed. Realizing this, she immediately turned to run.

Wesley managed to behead a third, leaving two dead and one incapacitated, leveling the enemy to four effective combatants, but just against him, since the woman had removed herself from the fight.

“Wesley! Down!” He heard Mark shout from behind right him, and he dived without hesitation, feeling the fire pass just over him from Mark's shotgun, the Dragon's Breath making a torch out of one of the vampires. Incendiary rounds come from the rifles of the other mercenaries behind mark, making short work of the rest of the vampires.

The woman turned back towards them. “Who the hell are you people?” Wesley took a good look at her, now that they weren't in a fight. She wasn't particularly tall, though she was taller than Buffy Summers – not that that was a particularly hard feat, when you got right down to it. As Cordelia had said she looked to be around twenty and her black hair was tied in a french braid. Unlike some certain Slayers he could name she had dressed in functional, plain clothing for the job of hunting vampires.

“We're Oracle Securities.” Wesley said. “And you?”

“Abigail St. Pierre.” The woman replied. “What are you, professional Vampire Hunters?”

“Something like that.” Mark said. “Actually we're into hunting all kinds of unholy abominations – demons, vampires. The whole kit and caboodle.” Abigail flinched a little on the word 'unholy', but admirably held her ground.

“Magic users aren't included in the 'unholy abominations' group, by the way.” Wesley noted. “I can use magic, though I'm much better with a blade or a gun.” He retracted his collapsible sword and went over to the vampire he had sliced the hand off of. It was still whimpering, leaning against the support column and cradling the stump where it's hand had been. Wesley removed a cross from his pocket and pressed it to the creature's forehead. It screamed. “Shut up.” He pressed harder, and it managed to avoid screaming. Wesley removed the cross, but leveled his gun at it.

“This won't kill you, but I don't want to kill you. Not yet anyway.” He took out both its kneecaps. He nodded to two of the mercenaries. “Take him back to headquarters. I want to know more about who we're dealing with.” He looked back at the Vampire. “Any attempt to bite anyone or escape, and your other hand will be gone.” The vampire was whimpering too much to be much of a concern at the moment, but just for good measure he put three in its stomach right before the mercenaries picked him up and carried him into the black unmarked SUV outside the warehouse.

“You're going to try and what, torture him?” Abigail said. “How?”

“With some time and some carefully holy water, this vampire will be begging to be staked.”

“Cool.” She said after a moment. Then, “Can I watch?”

Wesley raised an eyebrow. “Torture doesn't bother you?”

“Not when its done to a vampire.”

“Not only can you watch, but I think there might be a place for you in Oracle Securities, if you're interested.”


	7. The English Holy Water Torture

 Disclaimer: If you recognize it, not mine. If you don't, mine.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 7: The English Holy Water Torture

“Chain him down.” Wesley told the two who had carried the vampire into this cell beneath Oracle Securities. Though the Black Courtier had struggled the entire way, and was still struggling, between the three of them, they managed to chain it down. First the arms and legs were chained to the floor, but then more chains were put tight around its torso, keeping it not only immobile, but flat on the cold stone floor of the cell. The three of them left, leaving the vampire there. Wesley returned a few minutes later with a large bucket of water and a small, flexible plastic tube that came to a narrow almost-point at one end.

Wesley put the bucket down and started fiddling with the tube, making sure the vampire couldn't see what exactly he was doing. “Tell me, vampire. Have you ever heard of the so-called Chinese Water Torture?” The vampire only growled in response. Apparently, it had recovered from the bullets, though its hand was still gone at the moment. Wesley carried on as if holding a normal, pleasant conversation. “The name is a load of bollocks. It was first recorded by an Italian, back in the 15th century. Hippolytus de Marsiliis, was his name. He noted that continually dropping water on a stone in small drips would eventually create a furrow in the stone, as the water wore away at it. Apply the concept to humans, and you have the so called 'Chinese Water Torture.'”

“Of course,” Wesley stood up and strapped the tube to the wall. It was long enough that the top part of it hung down, the narrow end hanging just over the vampire's forehead, actually. “with regular water on a regular human, you really can't get the same effect as on a stone. But Holy Water on a Black Court Vampire – or a Red Court Vampire for that matter...well, you'll still be among the undead, rather than the dead, but you will be having something of a dent. Or, rather, a burnt through hole. Its one of the few good ideas the Watcher's Council ever came up with.” He paused. He twisted a valve on the tube, and a single drip of water dropped on the vampire's head. It couldn't help but yelp in pain. “I give you just a few hours.” He walked out of the cell.

“He's insane, isn't he?” A black haired woman said, watching what was happening through the security camera in the corner of the cell.

Mark raised an eyebrow at Abigail St. Pierre. “I thought you said you didn't have a problem with torturing vampires.”

“I don't. But talking to it amicably while you're setting up the torture device is just...wrong.”

The ex-marine just shrugged. “I'm not sure I agree, but yea, I think Wesley's more than a little insane. I don't really know much about the man – he was in L.A. for the better part of four years, fighting demons, vampires and whatnot over there – usually with the ultimate end of fighting Wolfram and Hart-”

“That's that demon law firm you told me about? The redundancy?"

Mark chuckled. It wasn't a particularly funny joke, given the number of times he'd heard it – and used it – but it was always a little amusing on a very basic level nonetheless. “Yea. He was with some group, and I get the impression they were tight, like family. Some kind of shit went down, and he had a falling out with the rest of them. I figure it was one of them that gave him that scar, on his throat. He's been through the ringer, and I think something in him broke. Going just a little bit insane is sometimes the mind's only way of coping with life.”

“What were you, a psych major?”

“Never went to college. Went into the marines straight on graduating high school. You don't need a degree to see what I'm talking about in effect.”

“No.” Abigail said softly, “You don't.” She sighed and looked back at the security monitor, smirking as the vampire screamed in agony as yet another drop of holy water splashed onto its head.

“So you do magic, but it seemed pretty narrow.” Mark commented, a few minutes later. Watching the vampire writhe and scream as holy water occasionally and randomly dropped on its forehead, sizzling, got boring eventually. “I've seen Dresden in action,”

“Dresden? The Harry Dresden?” Abigail raised an eyebrow.

“Yea...you know him?”

“He's the Warden for half the United States – the half I happen to live in. Knowing who he is is an occupational necessity. I don't have the breadth and depth of power to qualify as a wizard of the White Council – all I have is my kinetomancy, manipulation and use of force. But the Laws of Magic still apply to me. I haven't broken any, since thankfully the whole 'not killing with magic' thing doesn't apply to killing Black Court. Only applies to humans.” She looked at him. “How did you find out about all this? You're just a vanilla mortal. Most of you – no offense – like to pretend this whole other world right in front of your eyes doesn't exist.”

Mark sighed, “Yea. I know. I was like that. But I saw things. I was in Somalia, during Operation United Shield. Vampires and demons love civil wars in third world, apparently – they don't need to hide the bodies, not really. Death, destruction, disorder, panic. Probably just what the abominations are looking for. I saw a demon tear its way through a village. Didn't really believe what I saw...I mean...it wasn't human...but it couldn't be real. Didn't tell anyone – none of us in my squad did. But that, I dunno, I guess it opened my eyes. When I got back to the states, I saw things. When you know what to look for – or even know the possibility is out there. I noticed. These things prey on us, like they belong at the top of the food chain. They don't. They belong in whatever Hell they came from, not here on Earth. Someone's got to do something about them.” He raised an eyebrow. “What about you? Just decide to take up vampire hunting because you have some power?”

She didn't answer for a moment, then nodded. “Yea. Someone has to, after all. There's only one Slayer in the world – and wasn't _that_ a design flaw? If you're unlucky enough to live on a Hellmouth that _doesn't_ have a Slayer, you're pretty much fucked.” She shrugged, “Frankly, you're pretty much fucked wherever – Vampires are fucking everywhere anyway.”

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By the time Wesley entered the room again, the vampire was blubbering. The constant – in terms of that it was never ending, though not in terms of regularity - drip of holy water had burned a hole all the way to its skull, and was working at getting to its brain. Wesley ended the drip, and moved the tube from its position on the wall.

“Now. Will you tell me what I want to know?”

Through the vampire's whimpering and tears, he heard it say yes.

“Who sired you?”

“Natasha.” That name didn't sound familiar, but then he wasn't expecting it to.

“Who is the leader of your little group?”

“Some French guy.”

“Do you have a name? What does he call himself?”

“Gregory of Arles.” Wesley recognized that name. Nine hundred years of violence and bloodshed across two continents left an impression, after all.

“You came from Cleveland? Why did you leave the Hellmouth?”

“Some lawyers. They wanted us to kill things for them here.”

“How many vampires came with you, when you arrived here?”

“I don't know...like...forty, or something. But the boss talked about siring more. Said we were going to get some provided by the lawyers. Turn 'em into vampires, more soldiers.”

“Where is Gregory of Arles nesting?”

“I don't know. He moves around. He contacts his seconds – Natasha, some other guy, and someone named Franz – and they move around as well.” Wesley signed. That was all he was likely to get out of the fledgling. He pulled a stake and dusted it. He needed to do some research, maybe talk to Dresden about this new development. 

Author's Note: Its short, yes. Shorter than any of my other chapters, but I end chapters based on what happens in it ending. This chapter is short, but its over. Most will be longer.


	8. Into the Maelstrom

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: Points to kelvin for guessing Diocletian's apprentice accurately. The Heslrec Demons are completely my invention.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 8: Into the Maelstrom

“Mr. Lott?” The clerk rapped lightly on the open door into the Director of Wolfram and Hart Chicago Special Projects Division’s office. “I think we might have a bit of a problem.” He clutched a file tightly in one hand.

Lott looked up, “You don't decide what problems are. _I_ decide what is and what isn't a problem.” He nodded and the clerk came over and set the file down on Lott's desk. “Go on.”

“Well, Mrs. Sinclair has gotten a new attorney-”

“Not that much of a surprise. Her last attorney suddenly having his gambling debts called in and having to go on the run from his loan sharks, after all.” And with no way to trace it to Wolfram and Hart, as always. David Sinclair had been a long-time client of the firm, and now he was divorcing his second wife, trading up for a younger model. Wolfram and Hart Cleveland had ensured in the previous divorce that his wife had gotten almost nothing, and Wolfram and Hart Chicago would do the same. “How is this something you considered a problem.”

“Her new attorney...its...its Lindsey McDonald.” Lott practically ripped open the file. Indeed, right there, Lindsey McDonald's signature on a request for a brief delay in going to trail while he familiarized himself with the case 

“The one who got a away.” Lott murmured, and then smiled. The Senior Partners didn't consider Lindsey McDonald much of a threat, but was an annoyance – and he had successfully gotten away from the firm. No one got away from the firm. It set a bad example to let someone get away from Wolfram and Hart alive. But McDonald had managed it for two years. “I don't know what he's playing at coming out of hiding over this, but it was a mistake. I want him killed. Who is available?” It would be a significant feather in his cap – and a huge march stolen on Manners – if he delivered the head of Lindsey McDonald to the White Room.

“Um...sir. That's just the thing. We can't kill him.” The clerk said nervously. “He's listed...” His voice trailed off, but at Lott's glare he gulped and continued. “He has a contract of employment with Oracle Securities...meaning he works for Marcone, and we can't...we can't kill anyone who-”

“I know that!” Lott hissed, fists clenched. Marcone, and that damned Oracle Securities. Already a dozen-odd fledglings in Gregory of Arles' following had been killed by them, and they were hard at work eliminating demons throughout Undertown, depriving Wolfram and Hart of potential recruits. And now they were protecting traitors to the firm. And there was absolutely nothing he could do to solve the problem directly. “Get me Denna.” He told the clerk firmly. The Firm couldn't do anything, but Diocletian could, and Diocletian was Denna's responsibility and issue.

It took only a five minutes for the clerk – who scampered out of the room in fear for his life – to find Denna, and for her to arrive. “Yes, Mr. Lott?”  _What the hell do you want, you fat bastard_ , was really what she wanted to say – hatred of their boss was probably the only think Richard Carlise and Denna Frost had uniting them – but again, 'diplomatic' niceties took precedent. Lott pushed the file over to her as she sat down on the other side of the desk, and she opened it. “Lindsey McDonald?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to arrange to have him eliminated? I can get the wet-works team moving in-”

“No.” Lott said, interrupting her. “Its a little more complicated than that. Next page.” Denna turned and saw the Oracle Securities employment contract. “Ah.”

“Indeed. Our orders from the Senior Partners still prohibit any overt action that could be construed as grounds for war. Which leaves all our conventional assets useless. Which is why I called you here. I want Diocletian to kill Lindsey McDonald. Tell him to do it.”

“No, sir.”

“No? I think you misunderstand who has the power in this situation, Denna-”

“No, sir, as in Diocletian will not agree to do it. Diocletian only hunts and kills magic users. He would never devote any time or energy to killing someone like Lindsey McDonald, no matter how much we offered. He considers that sort of thing beneath him.”

“He was brought here to do what we tell him.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Lott.” _Oh, it is so fun to see him squirm like this_. _Not that I'm making this up._ “We brought him here specifically to deal with Harry Dresden. Nothing more, nothing less. In fact, I suspect that as we speak, he's already putting whatever plan he has for everyone's favorite wizard in the phone-book into action.”

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Two people walked down the streets of the Windy City that night. Well, two among many. One wore a black hooded cloak that covered him entirely, no part of his body exposed to view, save for one gnarled, wrinkled hand that had snaked its way out of his right sleeve to grip a wooden, hand-carved walking stick. It was an utterly unremarkable thing, but the stooped man certainly needed it, if the slow and unsteady nature of his walking was any indication.

The other was young, in her early twenties at best. Long brown hair and she wore brown shirt and jeans. From the way she could be seen helping the older man move along, she could be his granddaughter, helping her grandfather.

Or not. The elderly man suddenly stopped, and straightened himself up, scanning his surroundings with a quick glance. “He's here. Hide yourself, Madison.”

The woman frowned, “But sir-”

“You will do as I command, Amy Madison! You came to me, asked me to teach you so that you would have the knowledge necessary to defeat the witch Willow Rosenberg. If you wish for me to impart to you even a fraction of the multitude of secrets I possess, then you will obey my every command! Conceal yourself, and only come out when and if I command you.”

With a barely contained hiss, Amy Madison nodded, “Yes Master.” Without another word, she faded into the shadows of a nearby building. And onto the empty street turned a VW Beetle of numerous colors – though, Diocletian noted with faint amusement, not one of those colors was blue, despite the nickname Dresden had given his car. With a wave of the plain staff, the car suddenly stopped. To his credit, Harry Dresden knew immediately the cause of his car's....technical difficulties. Only magic could create such clean breaks and shut downs. Diocletian watched as his prey came out of the car, blast rod out.  _Poor, stupid man. He thinks his familiar old tricks will save him._ And then Dresden saw him.

“What's with the bathrobe? I mean, do you guys get together and have a conference on what kind of uniforms you're going to have for the next few years?” 

Diocletian waved a hand and Dresden was suddenly stuck to the wall of the building along the street, like a fly stuck to a web. “Your attempts at humor will serve you no purpose against me, Mr. Dresden, as I intend to do what many have attempted and failed to do.”

“What? Pull the Ring-wraith look off successfully?”

“No, Mr. Dresden. I intend to kill you.”

“No offense, I'm sure you think you're a pretty tough customer, but people a hell of a lot more powerful than you have tried to kill me, and-”

“You survived your encounter with Nicodemus only because Shiro gave his life to save yours. There's no Knight of the Cross here to save you, to give their life for you. And you only defeated the one you know as Cowl because he was too busy to concern himself with a gnat like you, which allowed you to interrupt his Darkhallow by freeing the spirit you call Bob.” He smirked as he revealed secrets. “And you have committed the same fallacy that Donald Morgan, Anastasia Luccio and even your mentor Ebenezar McCoy committed. Power is not the only tool for victory, Mr. Dresden.” His will keeping Dresden stuck to the wall held even as he spoke, “Power is a fine medium when you want achieve victory in the short-term, create short-term effects, but the only true way to have real victory is through a higher currency. Secrets, Mr. Dresden, are the true currency of the world in which we live. Who has them, who doesn't. Who knows more secrets, whose secrets are more powerful. That is how I have survived as long as I have, and that is how I will continue to survive for far longer. I possess a far greater arsenal of secrets than you ever will, and what paltry few secrets you still possess that I do not already know will not save you, Harry Blackstone Dresden.” 

“That's only three of my names.” Dresden replied flippantly, “You can't do anything without my fourth. And don't you know its impolite to not introduce yourself when you know the other person? I need something to call you.”

Diocletian chuckled, “You have spirit, I will give you that, Mr. Dresden. But my name is immaterial and irrelevant to this discussion. You may know me by the name the White Council whispers in terror of my might, for I will be the one to tear down its ancient edifices and build a new order on the ashes of the old. I am Diocletian, and I will be your death. Before this night is through, I will have your fourth name.” A new blip formed on his senses, and without a word, he spun to the left as a young woman, younger even than his own apprentice, with biologically impossible neon green hair, threw fire at him. Diocletian waved his hand lazily and blocked the magic with a shield. “Molly Carpenter. I was wondering when you would arrive. Madison, deal with her.”

“With pleasure, Master.” Amy appeared out of the shadows on his command and gathered fire in her hands. “Want to see what _real_ fire magic looks like, Molly?” She threw the ball, but Molly ducked, and with whispered words, suddenly was veiled against sight. Amy hissed in anger. “Show yourself, you coward!” 

Diocletian had no more attention to spare for Molly Carpenter, for while her spell had been completely ineffectual in its goal of harming him, it had distracted him enough that Dresden had removed himself from the spell sticking him to the wall. “I look forward to draining your apprentice of her magics, Mr. Dresden.”

“Bite me!” Dresden spat, “ _Forzare!_ ”

Diocletian laughed, “You still don't get it!  _Forzare Interruptis!_ ” The energy of Dresden's force spell collapsed into itself and flew into his hand. “You have no understanding of the true power of secrets, Mr. Dresden. And to think you're the one that Mab wants as her new Winter Knight!” He laughed again, then thrust out the hand that had caught the spell, sending its force back at Dresden. The blast knocked him into the building, though he survived blow mostly intact. 

“What can I say, Mab knows quality when she sees it! _Fuego! Pyrofuego!_ ” Fire flew from his blasting rod, but again, to no effect.

“ _Fuego Interruptis!_ ” The fire congealed itself into his hand, and Diocletian gave it a little something special. He threw the fire back at its originator, and Dresden raised his wrist, blocking the flames and the heat they generated – he had learned from the flame-thrower wielding Rensfeld. But he caught a familiar scent.

“Brimstone! That was Hellfire! You're a Denarian!”

“No, Mr. Dresden. Sharing your body with one of the Fallen is not the only way to attain the secret of hellfire. Not when you can just rip it from the mind of one of the Order of the Blackened Denarius! Like I have. Secrets, Mr. Dresden. I know all of yours. There is nothing you can do, especially now that Lasciel is gone from your mind, that can stop me from taking your fourth name from your mind, and ending you!”

Even as that 'fight' had gone on, Molly was taking full advantage of her veiled status to evade the attacks of Amy Madison, and get in a few of her own. She got in close finally, and kicked her opponent in the gut, forcing her to double over. Feeling victory near, Molly kicked again, only for her leg to be caught by Amy. “Compared to Black Court Vampires and the Slayer, your strength is negligible, Molly.” Smirking, she twisted her hands and Molly screamed as the sickening sound of bones snapping rang out from her leg. Molly became visible once more.

Diocletian turned yet another spell back at Dresden, “Familiar! Don't you have anything new? I was expecting a challenge of out of you!”

Dresden heard Molly scream. He had tried several more spells, but each time, Diocletian had blocked him, turning his magic against him. He had only one thing left to try. He raised his hand, where the fused force ring sat, and unleashed its force against the warlock. “I'm full of surprises,”

Diocletian saw the effect going at it...and it was one of the secrets he didn't know. It would never kill him, but – the force connected and sent him flying across the street. Power was one thing Diocletian had never possessed, which was why he'd been so interested in utilizing Secrets to achieve victory. But Secrets he didn't know...when called to account for his failure to deal with him, Blackstaff McCoy had said of Diocletian “Any spell can work on Diocletian. Once.” Diocletian had ripped the knowledge of the man's words from yet another Warden trying to stop him, a few decades ago. It was decidedly true.

Any spell could work on Diocletian. Once. And when a spell worked on Diocletian...it worked. Seething in fury, struggling to get back on his feet, he watched as Dresden summoned wind and buffeted Amy Madison aside, grabbing Molly Carpenter and escaping the one way left to them – taking a shortcut through the Nevernever. The warlock cursed in a dozen languages as his prey escaped him, but he still had one cold comfort – that trick would never stop him again.

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“You know, I was hoping for another turkey shoot. I was _really_ fucking hoping. But no. We have to pick a fight demons that shoot back! Seriously, since when do demons use modern weaponry?” Mark's words were overlaid, as if to punctuate his point, by a hail of bullets hitting the wall the mercenary was hiding behind.

Wesley, on the other side of the empty doorway in the old sunken building, also using wall as cover, leaned carefully around said wall and squeezed off several shots from one of his pistols getting one of the demons in the throat. He barely managed to get behind the wall again as the other demons responded with more bullets, which either hit the wall or sailed past him into the empty room. “The vast majority of demons do not use modern weapons, and those demons native to any of the various Hell Dimensions certainly don't use them, but there are some species of demon who are, for all intents and purposes, native to Earth, and of them, there are a handful that have adapted to modern weaponry. Not every species of demon is a stupid as a Fyarl is.”

“I could've stood to have learned the earlier, you know, Wesley.” He looked at the wall. “I don't think this wall will be stopping may more bullets-” another hail of bullets interrupted his words, and Mark dove down for good measure, crouched. “much longer.” he finished. 

“Throw in a White Phosphorous Grenade.” Wesley responded.

“They're not Vampires.”

“Neither are you or I, but we'd be just as dead if someone set us on fire, albeit we'd leave something more than ash behind. Heslrec Demons don't like fire anymore than you or I.” He ejected the half-empty clip from one of his pistols and loaded a full one in its place. “I'll keep their heads down, you throw the grenade.” Without waiting for Mark's response, Wesley stepped completely out of cover and began to empty both pistols into the demons, firing them both at the same time. _That man is fucking psychotic! And completely reckless!_ Mark didn't let that though distract him, as he ripped the pin off of a grenade and threw it into the next room. Wesley barely managed to dive back into their room as the three remaining Heslrecs were ignited, screaming the universal scream of the agony of burning to death. Mark didn't need to speak any demon languages to understand that. Mark, no matter how much he might hate whatever/whoever he was fighting, never _liked_ killing them, never liked the death. When it came to killing demons and vampires, he wasn't so sure that Wesley Wyndam-Pryce _didn't_ like the killing.

They both waited for the fire to start to die down. They'd entered the structure with two other mercenaries and Abigail St. Pierre, but when they'd split up almost immediately. They'd arranged to meet on the next floor down, but the most direct route down was through the room that had had a squad of the short, spiny Heslrec Demons. “There going to be any more of these little buggers?”

“Almost certainly. Heslrecs are often found in large groups. They're pests and this building is without a doubt swarming with them.” Wesley reloaded his empty pistols and stepped into the charred room, carefully sidestepping some flaming debris. “We should have a clear shot to the stairs.” Wesley fired three shots into the one of the charred corpses. 

“What the hell?”

“It was twitching.” Wesley said, by way of explanation.

“It was dead, Wesley.” 

“Now we can be sure. Let's go.” It took a bit of concentration on both their parts to avoid all the remnant fires, but soon enough they were across the room and into the hall beyond. From there it was easy enough to hit the stairs going down.

On the floor below, they heard heavy gunfire coming from somewhere nearby. Immediately they headed towards the source of the sound, but instead, an explosion of something with a great deal more kick to it than White Phosphorous went off somewhere in the building, sending the entire place shaking, and almost knocking Wesley and Mark off their feet as one of the ceiling beams collapsed in front of them.

“Shit.” Mark stepped over the fallen beam, and they kept on. They found Abigail and the other two mercenaries on the other side of a room filled with at least a dozen of the Heslrec Demons. Abigail was managing to keep them all safe from bullet fire at the moment by creating a shield to block them all, but there was an upwards limit – even a fairly high one – to how long someone could keep a shield spell going, no matter how good you were, especially under pressure from that much lead. They three were crouched behind a whole bunch of crates to minimize their target, but the crates wouldn't block much in the way of bullets, hence the shield.

Mark sprayed the flanked Heslrecs, all of whom had their attention focused on the three in front of them, and when the three on the other side of the room saw him, they – well, the two mercenaries anyway – joined in with their assault rifles.

“Everyone alright?” Mark asked the three, once the dozen demons were dead. 

“Close enough, anyway.” Abigail said. “Petrovich got grazed before I put the shield up.”

“I think we need backup.” The Russian said. “If we're going to clear out this building of gun-toting demons. What are they anyway?” 

“Heslrecs. Nasty little buggers. They're one of the primary suppliers of kittens to the underground kitten-poker games around the world. They kill any humans that get in the way of their collection efforts.” Wesley commented. “I wouldn't be surprised if we find a goodly number of kittens somewhere in this building, getting ready to be shipped off somewhere.”

Abigail was the first to respond after that little bombshell threw them all off. “ _Kitten poker?!_ ”

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Meanwhile, in a Hell Dimension relatively 'close' – as these things are reckoned – to Earth, three beings of awesome power watched with amusement as Chicago went Into the Maelstrom. What they didn't – couldn't – realize was just how quickly Earth, and then the Nevernever, would be following suit. The whole of creation was going to pass Into the Maelstrom, and only some would make it out the other side intact – and even less would make it out, alive.


	9. Explanations and Encounters

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: That little teaser I gave at the end of chapter 8? Don't expect it to actually pay off for _quite_ some time.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 9: Explanations and Encounters

Showing up at the Carpenter household with an unconscious Molly is not the best of options. Showing up with an unconscious Molly that also had a broken leg – even worse.  _Charity was probably an inch from taking my staff from me and beating me to death with it._ Harry considered. The trip though the Nevernever to Molly's home had been of the quick and dirty variety, and quite frankly, he'd almost been inclined to let Charity beat him with his staff – though not to death – for letting Molly get hurt like that. He wasn't even sure how she'd been there, in a position to, frankly, save his life, when she did, but it was his fault she'd gotten her leg broken by that woman – Diocletian's apprentice? Did he say her name was Madison? 

Whoever and whatever the hell Diocletian was and wanted, he was something different than he'd ever faced before. Cowl, Nicodemus, Aurora, He Who Walks Behind, Justin DuMorne – most of his various enemies over the years could pack more magical punch than Diocletian.  _Its almost depressing, the way I so easily rack up enemies several times my own power._ But Diocletian...whatever the hell it was he had, he knew, made him a threat of a kind – though not of a degree – Dresden hadn't dealt with before. His fused force rings seemed to throw him for a loop or something, which was good...

Harry was in his lab within minutes of arriving back as his apartment.

“Bob, wake up.”

The eye sockets of the previously inanimate skull sitting on the desk filled with an orange light. “What, no cracks about 'wake up, lazybones'? I'm insulted.”

“Not really. I just got curb-stomped by a warlock calling himself Diocletian.”

“Diocletian? You're sure.”

“Yea. He violated the Evil Overlord List with a perfect monologue on it. You've heard of him.” It wasn't a question.

“I met him. He was buddies with Kemmler.” Bob obviously caught the look on Harry's face, “He was never anywhere near Kemmler's power. Kemmler could've dealt with him without blinking. Look...I only can remember a little bit about him without getting into those memories I'm never touching, but he's bad news...he's got this power, or something. You cast a spell against him you've cast at him before, or he knows how you cast it well...he can-”

“Catch it and turn it against me?”

“Pretty much. That's all I can remember without-”

Harry cut him off, “That's enough. We're definitely not touching that part of you. I'll contact the Council, see what they can tell me.” Harry felt the adrenaline that had kept him going in the fight begin to fade. Then again, Harry was used to running on empty. “My force rings worked though.”

“They won't again. He just didn't know about them, is the only thing.”

“Hells Bells. Can it get any – oh, yea it can, He knew one of my middle names. I haven't the slightest idea. Its not like I bandy those two around.”

“You did sell one, in exchange for information from Chauncy, that one time.” Bob remarked. 

“Well, lets find out. Let's whistle him up and ask him, shall we?”

“And pay him what when you ask him? Your fourth name? He already sold the third one.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of forcing the information out of him.” Harry responded. 

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“Yes, kitten-poker. Its exactly what it sounds like. Probably the most common game played by vampires and demons here on Earth. Its a game of poker where they bid...kittens instead of chips.” Wesley said dryly. “As food, in most cases.” He shrugged. “They're evil, what do you expect? Don't you Americans have that whole 'the evil villain once kicked a puppy' trope?” Wesley checked the clips on his pistols. “Come on. There's going to be more of the Heslrecs-” 

“I'm afraid not, actually, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.” The set of double-doors on the far end of the room the five humans were standing in were thrown inward, and a short, unassuming man stepped in. He wore an Armani business suit and a had a sword in one hand. He spun it around a few times as he continued to talk. “Such a pleasure to meet a man who has been behind the death of several of my kin.”

“I've killed a lot of vampires, and helped kill a lot more.” Though Wesley didn't even pretend to count anything that happened in Sunnydale to that total. “You'll have to be more specific than that.”

“My name is Daniel. I'm here representing my Sire, Gregory of Arles. He's taken some offense at your activities, and sent me – and thirty of my good friends – to see to it that your interference is put to an end. Permanently.” As villain speeches went, it was uncreative, but then, sometimes, things just work. 

“I don't see the thirty friends.” Mark opened fire, spraying Daniel. The vampire was knocked back, and he assumed his 'game face', but was also completely intact. 

“Kevlar.” He said, by way of explanation. “Modern technology goes both ways, my friend.” He looked at the tattered suit and frowned, however. “I liked this suit. Do you know how hard it was for me to find someone who owned one that was my size? And then kill them without ruining the suit?” He snapped his fingers, and the promised thirty vampires arrived, ten blocking each exit, and each one armed with swords. Wesley produced his own blade, but he was the only one who had one on hand – sword training for the rest of Oracle Securities was just getting started. “Kill them.” He said calmly, and immediately they charged. 

“Didn't anyone ever warn you about escalation, Danny-boy?” Mark asked, and pulled two white phosphorous grenades, both with ripped pins. “Its a bitch.” Both were thrown immediately at the two closest groups of charging vampires, and though some managed to figure out what was coming and dove down, or back, or ran for cover, fire exploded all around them, and this time, the room itself joined the blazing party. 

“Now would be a very good time to leave, Mark!” Abigail shouted, throwing a piece of flaming half-rotted furniture at the last group of charging vampires. “I'll take a bit singed from running out one of those exits over getting my blood drained any day!” Fire was spreading quickly, across the room and into other rooms, but there was still room enough to get through the hallways, at the moment. The five humans found themselves out and away from the room. 

“Well? After then, you morons! They're only humans!” Daniel didn't even wait for any of them to act or protest, just beheading one before they had a chance to move. “Go! Or you can join him!” Twelve vampires hurried down the burning hallway after their enemies. Daniel, on the other hand, sighed. “With any luck, those idiots will at least kill one of them. Honestly. You can never find good help these days.” The Oracle Securities team was heading up, back into the upper levels of Undertown. Daniel, on the other hand, was going down. He needed to tell the boss they required more recruits.

Wesley was the first to see – or rather, feel – the pursuing vampires. Modern technology and cool toys aside, a vampire will always be faster than a human. The one at the head of the pursuit grabbed Wesley by the arm and flung him back into his own comrades, sending them flying like ninepins, but also leaving him completely surrounded by vampires.

“Wesley!” Mark turned, firing off a burst, catching one of the vampires in the leg with the incendiary rounds, bypassing the Kevlar, and still setting it on fire. Not that the fires all around them needed more help, the vampire flailing in agony and tumbling into another room, starting still more flames there, with more to work with.

“Go!” Wesley swung his sword, keeping the vampires just far enough away, but he couldn't keep them all back – he was surrounded. 

“Fuck that!” Abigail shouted. “This is no time to play the noble hero sacrificing your life!” She pulled a stake from her inside coat pocket and threw it at one of the vampires, her well practiced aim and kinetomancy ensuring it passed right through the heart – and by sheer luck, ended up in the arm of another, sending it out of the fight for a few moments. Wesley fired the stake from his launcher, but his arm was jostled and the stake went wide, flying off into the ceiling. 

“Wes, down!” Wesley dropped, swiping at the legs of one of the vampires and severing a foot, but even as Mark and the other two opened fire, he was lifted and hurled bodily into the ceiling himself. He landed, catching his fall with his hands, but didn't even manage to get his footing before he was kicked in the stomach and sent flying into his team. Mark grabbed him by the arm and half-dragged him up the stairs, a handful of vampires still chasing after them. 

“Stop,” Wesley said, getting onto his feet weakly. 

“The building is on fire, Wesley!” Abigail said, “We don't have time to-” Wesley interrupted her by calling a fireball into his hand. He wasn't very good at magic, when you got right down to it. Oh, he knew all the theory, knew all the spells, but it was all academic. He didn't have anything resembling the natural power he would need to even be considered a true focused practitioner. But if there was one thing he had down, one thing he had focused on grasping perfectly since the debacle that was his tenure in Sunnydale, it was fireballs. He couldn't really do many, but even one would do for this. The vampires were running just ahead of the flames licking their way through the building, but they weren't expecting fire in front of them. As the first of them came barreling up the stairs, they had a faceful of fire, which gave the rest of them just enough pause to meet the fire rushing in behind them. 

“Now we can go!” Mark declared and up they continued. They raced the fire, against time, against the collapse of the building as floors below burned – leaving them at risk of total collapse – but they made it out into the wider tunnels of Undertown, just below the city, as the hallway collapsed behind them. 

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“Have you or have you not sold knowledge of my name to a warlock who goes by the name Diocletian, Chauncy?”

The demon looked over its incongruous spectacles at Harry and shrugged. “I can't just give that kind of information away for free, Harry.”

“I didn't say you were going to give it away for free.” Harry replied, rummaging through the boxes on the shelves. “Bob, where's the hemlock?”

“Fifth box, bottom shelf.” The skull replied. Harry nodded and opened the box, pulling out several leaves of the poisonous plant.

“Now, as long as you're stuck in my binding circle, you can't go anywhere. That alone cuts into that little information brokering business you have, but there's also the fact that you're sharing company with some Hemlock.” He tossed the leaves into the circle. Under normal circumstances, it would have broken the binding, but a carefully constructed circle designed to let Hemlock in or out was another matter. It had taken some doing and a lot of help from Bob though. Chauncy hissed in annoyance as the presence of the Hemlock began to sicken him. “If you're looking for payment, here's my offer. Either you don't tell me what I want to know about Diocletian – which is everything you know about him – and then I send you back home, or I leave you in that circle until the Hemlock kills you, which should take..what, a few painful days? That payment enough?”

Chauncy hissed, then nodded. “Diocletian has only used my services twice. Once he sought knowledge about Anastasia Luccio, and once he sought knowledge about you, two of your weeks ago.”

“What did he pay you?”

“Nothing. He had acquired the rights to favors promised to other entities and used those for information, both times. In both cases, he acquired the favors first, shortly before summoning me. How he got the favors is unknown to me – I never asked those he got them from. Diocletian is even weaker than yourself, Harry, but you underestimate him at your peril.” He looked at the Hemlock, wincing again. “Now return me to my home. I have told you all I know.” Harry nodded, “A deal is a deal. But if I ever find out you've been bandying my third name around, we'll have to have a repeat of this little incident, only no information you give will make me inclined to send you back. Clear?”

“As crystal, Harry.” Harry released the bindings holding Chauncy to this realm and felt him vanish back through a split-second open portal to the Nevernever. 

It was a short time later when he called the Wardens up directly. If Diocletian was anywhere near as Bob was hinting at, at the very least, he needed to give someone the heads up. Though, if he was to be believed, Diocletian had fought Captain Luccio, Donald Morgan and even his own mentor, McCoy, and come out alive, even on top, in theory. That was a disconcerting thought. If He'd fought them before, then theoretically, none of their spells would work. Still, he was, at the moment, our of options.

“Hello?” Came the voice on the other end of the line.

“This is Warden Dresden. I need to speak to Captain Luccio, or Acting Captain Morgan, if at all possible.”

“What about, Warden Dresden?”

“A warlock calling himself Diocletian nearly killed me a little over a half and hour ago, and his apprentice nearly killed mine.” There was a moment of no response, then he heard a gruff, familiar voice on the other end of the line. Morgan.

“Diocletian. You are absolutely sure, Dresden?” _Hells Bells, is it so hard to believe that I might get the name right?_

“Yes. He gave me the whole 'I'm going to be the one to destroy the White Council' speech, then followed that up with a detailed description of his love affair with secrets. He's here in Chicago, for some reason he's decided to go gunning for me, and he has an apprentice.”

Morgan didn't reply for a time. “We're stretched thin, Dresden. The losses in the war, and the need to crack down on the rise of warlock activity during the war means I have absolutely no one to send to Chicago. I do not like to say this, but at the moment, Diocletian is likely going to keep roaming free unless you can manage him on your own, for at least a few weeks. I will speak to the Senior Council. If they deem it possible, I will reallocate what I can.”

“Morgan, be straight with me. Just how in over my head am I with this guy. He claims to have beaten you, Luccio, even McCoy.”

“Beaten may be too strong a word,” Morgan said, and Harry thought he could hear Morgan swallowing his pride as he spoke, “But yes. In encounters with myself, with Luccio, with McCoy and numerous others, he has managed to either win, or escape with his life intact, which is still a loss for us. He is the most slippery enemy the Council has faced since Kemmler...though we are fortunate he is orders of magnitude below Kemmler in every way. Spend every waking moment you have in your lab, developing something – anything – new. It is your best chance to ensure you live through future encounters.”

“You're all heart, Morgan. Thanks for the advice.”

“You are a Warden now, Dresden, and though I think that giving you the Gray Cloak was a mistake, that means as long as you bear it, you are as much my charge as any other Warden. If I had more to offer, I would offer it.” Harry knew it was true. Say what you wanted about Morgan – small-minded, narrow-minded, overly literal, ruthless, paranoid, somewhat simple – all true – but what was also true was that he was one of the most honorable sons of bitches on the face of the planet, and his sense of duty was pretty much the only thing he cared about, as far as Harry could tell.

“Here's hoping the Merlin sees things your way.” Harry said, then hung up.

Shit.

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It hadn't been hard to locate which bar Richard Carlise drank at. Not McAnally's. Places like that didn't really have the vibe to suit a Wolfram and Hart lawyer. Neither had Caritas, but that was yet another thing that had divorced him from the rest of his fellows at the Firm. That and that occasionally niggling conscience that had lead to his first and then final departures, and that had grown more and more present – though still a decidedly small voice over his sense of self-preservation, and a desire to mess with Wolfram and Hart purely for the personal enjoyment of messing with it.

He found his fellow lawyer in a bar that was upscale enough for him, but not so much that he'd be overly conspicuous just sitting there drinking at the bar. Lindsey sat down next to him and ordered his drink.

“Have you considered slicing off your hand, Richard?” He asked, conversationally. “Its a pretty good way to get in with the higher-ups, I hear. What you're willing to sacrifice for the company, and all that.” He raised an eyebrow as Carlise looked at him. “I'd be happy to oblige you, if you're considering it.”

“I think I'll take a rain check on that, McDonald.” He replied. He turned a bit more in his chair to get a full look at Lindsey. “Your hair is longer than it is in the pictures they have of you. The Senior Partners would reward whoever brought you their head quite a bit.”

“I'm sure they would.” The bartender returned with his drink, and then stepped away. He knew the first guy was with that weird new Law Firm in town – couple other lawyers from that place came here to drink as well, and he'd learned quickly he didn't want to know anything about them. “But as long as they're not interested in starting a full-scale war, I'm pretty safe.” He held up his drink idly. “Cheers, by the way.”

Carlise took a sip of his own drink and chuckled. “Hiding behind the Accords. Doesn't seem a very brave thing to do.” he commented, finishing his drink and waving for another.

“Whoever said I was brave? I certainly didn't. Besides, I'm a lawyer, at the end of the day. Have a law degree and everything to prove it. Hiding behind the Accords is exactly the lawyer thing to do.” 

“Is there a reason you're here?”

“What, a guy can't have a drink?”

“When he's sitting down next to a guy who works for the express enemy of the organization he works for, I don't think he's just there for a drink.”

“You've been working for Wolfram and Hart too long without a break. Not everyone has an angle. I just wanted to sit down and chat, enjoy a drink with a fellow lawyer, chat about working for Wolfram and Hart. You know, all the shit that goes into the job.”

“I don't chat.” Carlise replied. 

“Then how about you listen?”


	10. Tiny. But Fierce!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. End of Story.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 10: Tiny. But Fierce!

“NASA is confirming for us today that the recent so-called 'rain of fire' that fell over L.A. two days ago is in fact the result of a meteor breaking up in the atmosphere and raining debris all over the Los Angeles Basin. They are urging citizens not to panic, as this was a freak occurrence with no possibility of a repeat. President Bush has issued a statement saying disaster relief funds have been authorized to help repair damages suffered during the event. Back to you Bob.” Wesley muted the TV in his office as Mark walked in.

“Breaking up meteor?” Mark's tone was unbelieving, “Do you agree with them?”

Wesley shook his head. “Whatever really did happen, I highly doubt NASA has any idea what it was. It was probably just the start the latest garden-variety apocalypse. “ He said casually. He hadn't personally been involved in halting apocalypses on the scale of Buffy Summers and her friends, but the mere knowledge of the frequency with which apocalypses 'happened' and the fact that the world still turned despite them left him feeling wholly unimpressed by the entire concept. 'Ho hum, the world is ending again'

“Garden variety apocalypse?” Mark snorted, then his eyes narrowed, “You're not kidding.”

“Indeed I am not.” Wesley replied. “You'd be astonished and possibly horrified to learn just how often the world 'ends'. From my understanding of events here in Chicago, he's saved the world twice, possibly three times from apocalypses and near-apocalypses. In Sunnydale alone, there have been at least seven concerted attempts at ending the world through a variety of methods, and numerous more incompetent attempts. At least the last time I spoke to Rupert Giles, which was admittedly, a few months ago. The number of demons, warlocks and other supernatural entities that want and actively work towards the end of the world is far from insignificant. Fortunately, most of them are as incompetent as the would-be government overthrowing militias you have all over the place here. Only colonials like you would have so many of them – and so well armed too – and yet have them all be incapable of anything more than well...nothing.”

Mark chuckled at the latter part, but slumped down in the chair on the other side of Wesley's desk, rubbing at his temple sighing deeply. “So what? All the serious attempts at apocalypse happen where there are people nearby who can stop them?”

“So it would seem. The Powers that Be would likely take credit for that., but what they actually caused and didn't cause is going to be forever unclear, since they rely on decidedly unhelpful and vague visions and intermediaries.” He nodded to the file folder in Mark's hand. “The latest reports from the Undertown patrols?” Wesley was still nursing several fractured ribs, and had been unable to patrol because of them.

“Yea, plus some. We haven't seen hide nor hair of the Black Court since what went down in the Heslrec building, but there have been some recent 'grave robberies' that look to me more like vamps digging their way out of their graves.” He handed Wesley several news articles on the recent rash of 'grave robberies'. Wesley looked them over as Mark continued. “The demons we've been going up against have been more organized though. Still using swords and claws, but definitely working with precision and discipline.” He handed over a series of sketches. “Some of the new breeds we've been coming up against. Anything special about them?”

Wesley looked them over. “Nothing particularly special. Standard slice and dice, though a thorough riddling with bullet holes can accomplish the same. A variety of footsoldier and mercenary demons. Wolfram and Hart's really starting to make its play for Undertown now.” He leafed through the rest of the pages in the file. “I think a biweekly circular would be a good idea, as well as some sort of manual on the various demons we've been encountering. Most are pretty simple kills, but there's always exceptions.”

“Not the worst Idea I've ever heard.” Mark replied. “But how are we going to go forward with the new playing field in Undertown?”

“Well, I've been gathering contacts throughout the demon and demon-friendly community recently. Found some demons and demon clans that are both non-hostile to humans – unless attacked first or the like – and don't fancy living under Wolfram and Hart's thumb. Its time to stop just patrolling Undertown and start establishing a permanent presence there. Offer protection to those who aren't thrilled about the Senior Partners moving in. Anything less will just give them too much freedom of action.”

“ _Non-hostile?!_ ” He sighed, holding up a hand. “Yea, yea. I know, I know, but still, rubs me the wrong way. At least I don't have to be the one to sell it to Marcone.”

Wesley shrugged. “Its part of the larger effort, and Mr. Marcone appointed me in charge of that effort. At some point, I have to make judgment calls, and doing this is going to be vital to the wider effort. Besides, there's a lot of money in the underground demon community. I'm sure there are parts of it that Marcone would love to get his hands into, and having a reputation for helping demons who aren't anti-human – or at least don't go around slaughtering whatever humans they can get their hands on - would give him the kind of reputation to make that possible. I've also been considering another idea on how to accomplish something along the same lines, and improve cash flow. Though I know you won't like it.”

“Oh?” Wesley didn't look up from the file – he could hear Mark's raised eyebrow in his tone alone.

“Ghouls. We contact them after battles/skirmishes and let them have free reign on the demon bodies we leave behind. Charge a small price for the service, of course, but it would be a pleasant refresher to prevent them from going after humans, or people's pets, et cetera.”

“You're right, I don't like it.”

“Well, all we need to do is give a show of force to the local ghoul clans, and then point out this wonderful new source of food. As long as we're fighting Wolfram and Hart forces down there, we're not likely to run out of bodies, after all. Hopefully it should motivate some, anyway, to not join up with Wolfram and Hart. Ghouls aren't evil necessarily, they're just...hungry. And decidedly unpleasant.” 

“It might just drive some of them into Evil Incorporated's open arms.” Mark countered.

“Every command decision, in politics, diplomacy, war and economics, as well as every other field, contains inherent risks for action and inaction.” Wesley replied.

“True enough.” He sighed, “Well, its your call, at the end of the day.”

“I may be in charge, but Its not as if I can get away with being a tyrant. Any and/or all of you can quit, after all, at any time. You're not draftees.” Then, “Besides, while I may be one of the foremost experts on the supernatural on this side of the Mississippi not already employed by Wolfram and Hart, I'm not a general of any sort. And the troops, as it were, are more following you than me. You're my second in command for a reason.” The phone on his desk beeped.

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. There's a Sergeant Karrin Murphy down here, wanting to speak with you.”

“Is she on duty?” There was no reply for a moment, then:

“She says she's not here for any sort of official investigation or the like. She just wants to talk.”

“That doesn't exactly answer my question. Tell her that for the foreseeable future, unless she has a warrant, she or anyone else with the Chicago Police Department are not welcome on the premises of Oracle Securities. If she wants to talk, tell her that I'll talk to her when she's off duty at a neutral location. Say...McAnally's.”

Nothing again for a moment, then “She says she'll be there in two hours.” Wesley looked at the clock, and was actually surprised to see that it was seven-thirteen already.

“Tell her I'll be there.” The Clerk on the ground floor hung up.

“Playing with fire, Wesley.” Mark commented. “You don't just blow of Karrin Murphy like that. She may be short, but-”

“She's tough, right? She's not any taller than Buffy Summers. I'm familiar with the concept of short women with the ability to beat me up.” _Or strap me to a chair and torture me..._ “I'm just not prepared to be at her beck and call, or at the beck and call of the Chicago Police Department. I'm not Harry Dresden, and I'm not a consultant. I'm the CEO of Oracle Securities, and the principle owner of this company is a man who the police believe is the leader of the Outfit. They make no attempt to hide their – false – belief.” Wesley managed to keep his face straight as he said that with ease. Lying had never been the difficulty – though Lorne had spotted the lie when he'd hummed all those months ago, at the Hyperion – not that there was any surprise there. No, detecting lies – specifically Justine's – had been the hard part. He wondered if he would have been able to get away with Connor, had he just shot Justine. Could he have evaded Angel forever, protect him from killing his son? – not that that would have ever happened to begin with...He left off that train of thought as quickly as he could. He'd think himself into insanity if he kept it up. 

Wesley shrugged, “I'll meet her, and we'll talk. We have mutual areas of concern when it comes to preventing harm coming to the people of Chicago from the supernatural side of things, but she has the downside of an unbelieving bureaucracy hampering her efforts. At the end of the day, she's never going to be able to handle things as well as someone not attached to law enforcement would. Unless she ends up signing onto one of the supernatural fighting task forces the United States government has.”

“We have those? Damn. If I'd known back in '97, I might have signed on with them.”

“Every industrialized nation has something. Even England, despite the fact the Watchers' Council is based there, has one. They have varying degrees of success. Generally a combination of special forces and members of nation law enforcement agencies. If I recall correctly, the primary one here in the US is technically a branch of the FBI, to give it the mandate to act here in US borders. The Watchers Council-United States Treaty of 1911 does grant the Council final authority over Hellmouths and certain other aspects. Unfortunately, the whole thing is so classified that another group of military, intelligence and political officials set up their own demon-fighting task force that ended up botching the job in Sunnydale terribly, as I understand it. They went in uninformed and half-cocked, and paid in blood.”

“Speaking of uninformed, well, not actually speaking of it at all, did Baldwin give you an estimation of how long until the body armor and Kevlar arrive?”

“It should be a few days yet.” Wesley stood up, holding a hand to his ribs gently. “If I'm going to go meet with Sergeant Murphy in a little under two hours, I need to get some other things done first. Did Abigail go home yet?”

“First of all, she hasn't 'gone home' at any point. She's set herself up in one of the empty offices on the third floor. She sleeps there. Frankly, not sure if she has a 'home' to go to at the moment. She'd only been in Chicago for two days when we saved her in that warehouse, and she's been living here for the past two weeks.”

“I recall authorizing an employment contract which gave her a $75,000 a year salary as well as an additional $10,000 up front. I'm pretty sure she can afford an apartment.” 

“We've got so much empty space here, why not let her use it? I get the feeling she feels safer behind the wards Gard and that other chick from Monoc set up anyway. Charge her rent if it bothers you that much.”

“It doesn't bother me. I was just wondering if something hadn't gone through with her salary or something of the sort. Anyway, I wanted to talk to her.”

“Well, she was down in the training room practicing her knife-throwing about half an hour ago. Said she was working on how much magic she would need to put behind each throw to get the knives into some of the demons that come with their own body armor.”

“Not the worst idea I've ever heard of.” Wesley headed out of the office and a short elevator ride down to the basement later, he was in the training room. Sure enough, Abigail was there, with an impressive selection of knives and daggers arrayed on a small fold-up table next to her. As he was walking in, he saw her throw another dagger at a sheet of steel on the far wall. She murmured something as it flew, the dagger stuck into the steel, going through it and into the wooden wall behind almost to the hilt.

“How much steel is that?” Wesley asked. Abigail almost jumped out of her skin, and the ex-Watcher found himself thankful that she wasn't holding a weapon at that exact moment.

“Jesus Christ! Don't do that!” She held a hand to her chest a moment. “When I'm practicing I get really into it. Don't really notice anything else.”

Wesley nodded. “I understand that. But if you though  _I_ was startling, you should meet my previous employer.”

“Good at sneaking up on people?”

“And he was fond of doing it, I think. More than once it was remarked that he should wear a bell.” He nodded at the steel again. “How much?”

“Three and a half inches. Took about the maximum I can safely put into a single spell to do it though, and I don't think that dagger is going to be useable again with some significant sharpening, but then, I'm not exactly short on that front.” She indicated the fold-up table with a smirk.

“I noticed. Collect them, do you?”

“When I was in Cleveland, I made my living selling the possessions of whatever demons and vampires I killed, but if they had any knives or daggers, I kept those.”

“Speaking of Cleveland, that was what I was coming down to talk to you about. I was wondering if you knew anyone down there, in the know, who have useful skills that could be brought to the table here in Chicago, and who would be willing to relocate from Cleveland to take employment with us. Apart from yourself and I, we're rather thin on magical talent, except when we borrow Ms. Gard, which is only possible infrequently. And as good as you are with kinetomancy, and as strong on theory as I am, the two really don't represent the breadth and depth of magical skill needed to really push this effort. Friendship and common cause with Dresden aside-”

“We could use more?” Abigail nodded. He cocked her head in thought for a few moments. “I dunno. There wasn't much organization among those of us who fought back against the Vampires and Demons in Cleveland, at least not on a large scale. The Cleveland Hellmouth is weaker, as I understand it, which is why it didn't attract as many apocalypses as the one over in Sunnydale.” She shrugged. “Still I know a few people. Most of them are probably too focused in on what lives they may have in Cleveland to just up and leave. I followed that group of vamps here because they were leaving, but I didn't have much attaching me to Cleveland either. I know a good hex-man who'd probably be willing to come over here, maybe some others...” 

She walked over to the steel plate and started to pull knives out of it/the wall behind it, as well as some that had bounced off with lesser force amounts. She did have trouble pulling the last out – in that it wouldn't come out at all. After some struggle, she gave up. “I'd have to make some calls, write a few letters – since I don't know all their numbers even if they even have cell phones or regular phones.”

“Alright.” Wesley nodded. “Get back to me on that when you can, will you?”

“Sure.”

AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF

Wesley arrived about an hour early to the meeting with Sergeant Murphy, since he hadn't eaten dinner yet at this point, and ordered a beer and a Steak Sandwich, sitting at an empty table once both arrived. He'd busied himself reading a new occult tome he'd acquired at a local place – Bock's Ordered Books.

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?” The female voice made him look up from his book, and the fact that the person talking to him was no taller than Buffy Summers – and with blonde hair – suggested to him that she was Sergeant Murphy. He closed the book.

“Please, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce is my father, who hopefully we shall have no cause to ever speak of. I really would prefer to just be called Wesley. I can't seem to get the clerks at Oracle Securities to do that, however...” He indicated the chair opposite him. “Please, feel free have a seat.” Karrin Murphy sat down. “Is there a specific reason why you wanted to meet with me, or is this a more general meeting?” His tone was that of the stereotypical 'unflappably polite upper-class British' Americans had. The truth of the variety of accents in England was larger than that, of course, but then, the people of the British Isles tended to have -almost!- as narrow a view of American accents, so neither were in any position to cast stones.

“Well, there is the fact that you work for the leader of the Outfit.”

“You are aware that slander is frowned upon Sergeant Murphy? I assure you, Mr. Marcone is a perfectly legitimate businessman with numerous financial holdings. He has no connections to any crime, organized or otherwise.”

Murphy smirked a little at that. “Amazing you can say that with a straight face.”

“Leaving aside our mutually conflicting opinions of Mr. Marcone, what else can I do for you?”

“I want to know the score. What's happening here in Chicago, now that these Wolfram and Hart people have moved into my city, and and what is _going_ to happen?”

“Long version or short version?”

“Give me the short version, then give me the long version.”

“Short Version: You've got something just two steps short of total war raging beneath the streets of Chicago.” Then he leaned forward a bit in his chair and started to give her the long version.

**Author's Note:** I know that in the Buffyverse, the government is generally portrayed as either unhelpful, ignorant or actively hostile – sometimes all three- but I happen to have a more positive view of government, both in the particulars and in the abstract, than The Joss seems to. (If you go by the other TV Series's he's done.) I find it impossible to believe that the government, with the resources and information gathering ability it has, would  _not_ know, and that the Initiative would really be so ill-informed. Especially since the DRI when it 'recruited' Angel during WWII seemed much more supernaturally savvy. The Dresdenverse doesn't actually approach it either way, but in the Dresden Files RPG, it is suggested that the governments of the world probably have  _some_ idea of what is going on out there, and probably have equivalents of CPD's Special Investigations Division. 


	11. Transfer

**Disclaimer:** The Dresdenverse and the Buffyverse not mine. Any and all original characters and content, however, are mine.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 11: Transfer

“I'm not sure what you want from us, Your Grace.” Denna Frost said to the man sitting on the other side of her desk. The sunlight streaming into the room from the massive windows the made up most of the outside wall of her office would normally be a problem for her client, but necro-tempered glass worked just as well to protect his kind as it did for Black Courtiers. “Wolfram and Hart is not at war with the White Council, not have we any interest in _being_ at war with the White Council. If we help you, we'll be giving them a gold-plated opportunity and completely legitimate reason to want to lay the hurt down on the firm's operations here on Earth, and that does not fit the plans of the Senior Partners at all. Besides which, the Red Court is currently under truce with the White Council. I was unaware that the Red King had changed that policy.”

“The Red King is betraying the Court by agreeing to that truce.” The man – thing – in the chair across form Lilah said in accented English. “We had the White Council on the ropes, and instead of pressing our advantage, he let that white-belly Raith talk him into agreeing on a truce. We do not make peace with our enemies, we destroy them.” 

“You and what army, if I may ask?” Denna asked politely. She had no worries about provoking Baron Fernando Zaragoza of the Red Court. He was on Wolfram and Hart territory, and if he did attack or kill her, his life was forfeit, and the Red Court would have no cause for war. He was the guest, after all. “

All I see is one pissed off Red Court Baron, and I think the war has proven that any Wizard worth the name can chew through your kind by the dozen. It has been your numbers that have given you the victories you're crowing about, and even those need time to be replenished.”

“I have brought with me to this city eighty-seven of my kind that are loyal to the Court, and not to the King. Others of my class that think as I do have gathered their own forces for the same effort. We will continue the war against the White Council, and when the Red King comes to his senses, or is overthrown by others who do – then we shall be richly rewarded for our efforts on behalf of our kind.”

“Again, I'm not sure what you want Wolfram and Hart to do. We're willing to provide a wide range of services, for a fee, but we cannot facilitate your illegitimate continuation of war against the White Council and its agents. Specifically in this case, I assume you're here for the Warden Dresden.” _And don't I wish them the best of luck at it. Diocletian certainly hasn't been of any use recently. He's been holed up in his safehouse ever since Dresden pulled that force ring on him. I know he always gets thrown for a loop when he gets faced with something new, but until he gets his act together, we still have to worry about Dresden interfering in our operations. He's already put several cases up in smoke by keeping opposing witnesses alive long enough to testify._

“My brethren and I, if we wish to avoid the notice of Dresden until we are fully in place and ready to strike will need sustenance other than simply preying on the people of Chicago. I know that Wolfram and Hart has its own personal Dimension with a large populous of humans that we could use, therefore eliminating that security risk. I believe it is called Pylea.” Zaragoza leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I wish to negotiate access to this world for hunting, or at least a steady supply of humans to feed my forces with.”

“Now we're getting somewhere.” Denna replied. “This is something we can do for you. What exactly do you have that you can offer us in return for the services rendered? I am afraid that following a few...upheavals just under two years ago, the overheads will be higher for this arrangement now than it might have been before such...events.”

Zaragoza spread his hands magnanimously, “I am a Baron of the Red Court, regardless of the Red King's recent decree to the contrary. I am not without resources of my own. How much are you asking per human?”

“Depends on how many you want.” Denna replied. “This _is_ the modern era, after all. Buying in bulk has its benefits.”

AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF

The War Room at Oracle Securities only held three people at the moment. Wesley, Mark and Abigail.

Wesley, as CEO of Oracle Securities. Mark as CO of all of the soldiers, and Abigail as the head of the new Magical Division.

Over the last week, they'd managed to form, both from Abigail's friends in Cleveland, and from a handful of locals, a small team of minor talents and focused practitioners – including a pyromancer acquaintance of Abigail's – organized under a new 'Magical Division', with Abigail at its head. Fortunately, the woman hadn't let that go to her head.

The three of them were assembled, standing around the large table in the center of the room, the map currently on top of all the others was of a particular 'cavern' -for lack of a better term - in Undertown, and the three tunnels that led into it, or most of the extent of the tunnels, anyway.

“Wolfram and Hart's forces have been hounding at this particular clan of Brachen Demons for the last four days, trying to get them to either leave Undertown or submit to their authority. Neither option particularly appealed, so they asked us for help.” Wesley said. “Unfortunately, they aren't near-human enough in appearance for them to just go up into the open above ground, so until a better option presents itself, we'll just need to defend them. This is going to be the first part of our effort to establish and maintain a permanent presence in Undertown. We can expect a standard force of warrior breeds and nothing particularly creative this go around. We can expect to be outnumbered severely, however, and for them to attack through all three tunnels. We can't let them into the main cavern. Mark? What deployments did you have in mind?”

Mark nodded, “If we place the heavy machine guns Baldwin just delivered here, and here,” He pointed at particular spots in the left and right tunnels, “and the bulk of the remaining forces here,” a spot in the center tunnel, “We should be able to keep the Wolfram and Hart forces occupied for as long as the supply of bullets keeps, in theory. But there is a practical limit to just how much we can stand to be outnumbered, and I'm not confident enough in the sword skills of myself or my men to go melee with them.”

“As long as you keep them occupied long enough, we're good. Wolfram and Hart is a corporation, and its leaders think and act like leaders of a corporation. Their Los Angeles Branch, apart from one special case, has shown that it knows how and when to disengage when the cost gets too high or success seems particularly unlikely. In order to protect this clan, we just need to show Wolfram and Hart Chicago that its not worth the effort. Killing their soldiers will help, but they have those a dime a dozen. What we need is to lay the hurt on their command staff.” He nodded to Abigail. “What we need to do is, while their forces are tied down getting killed by Mark's men, get a team close to the C&C near the front lines and thus whoever they have in place controlling the op. Specifically, your team, with myself along as well. Think you can pull that off, punch a hole through to them?”

Abigail considered, “With a little bit of luck, and as long as Mark's boys really do keep most them occupied, it should be a breeze.”

“We'll do our end, just don't go in spells blazing.” Mark said. “Don't go killing any humans with magic by mistake. Last thing we need is Wardens dropping in on us.”

“That's what Wesley's coming along for. Provide the more mundane means to shoot-slash-threaten any humans there.”

Wesley nodded. “Even if they won't have a human in charge, they will have a human adviser attached, or at least someone to make sure the demon in charge keeps with company policy.” He turned back to Mark. “So who in particular are you thinking putting on the heavy machine guns?”

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Lilah Morgan was not having the best of days. She'd been busy in her office, attending to various projects when Angel's hellspawn had decided to come barging in, demanding to know more about who and what he was, because he felt he had some connection to the demon that had caused the recent rain of fire. Lilah had, in turn, offered to help him figure it out, telling him the best way would be to submit to a battery of tests – and thus finally allowing the Firm to take a look at him and what made him tick.

He'd been understandably resistant to the idea – and downright refused vivisection, but she was pretty sure she'd been getting somewhere, when the news that something was attacking the lobby came on up. Dispatching Gavin to figure it out – and hadn't that been fun – had only led nowhere. Right now, she was desperately trying to make her way through the locked down building to some kind of escape. The bodies...all the bodies dead. She wasn't particularly fond of any of them, but Lilah had always managed to maintain a personal distance from the nastier aspects of Wolfram and Hart's operations, most of the time. Certainly, she had no interest in seeing all those dead bodies piling up around her – or touching them, though it was hard not to, since there were so damn many of them.

Things had gone to hell, and not the fun variety where she got rewarded for it, but the kind where Wolfram and Hart Los Angeles was now an entirely dead branch. Literally. Never one to just roll over and die, and with any access to the only escape route she knew cut off, she figured her best bet – her only bet – was the White Room.

The thundering sound of the creature, the rock-skinned demon, coming in her direction forced her to duck into an office, hoping against hope – because dying  _ really _ wasn't on her to do list – that it would pass her by.

“Hello Lilah.” A familiar voice she not heard in nearly two years came from behind her. She turned, and yes indeed, it was him.

“Manners? What the hell are you doing here?”

Manners was as unflappable as ever, despite being both dead, and being surrounded by the dead. Of course, the fact that The Beast posed absolutely no threat to him – seeing as he was already dead – was probably part of it. “The Senior Partners sent me here to oversee your transfer to a different branch.” He said.

“Transfer? That thing is killing everyone in the building.” 

“Certainly seems like a good idea to get out of here, then, doesn't it. You're planning to go the White Room. That is where you need to go if you want to accept the transfer, but if you don't, well, I'm only authorized to offer you the new post once, and well, if you turn it down, I'm afraid you'll be finding yourself dead. And I'm sure you don't want that.”

“Where is the transfer to?” Dying was not at all on her to-do list, but then again, she was also not the least bit interested in serving in one of the third-world dimensions. She'd take her chances with a run for the escape tunnel through the supply closet rather than that.

“Wolfram and Hart Chicago. An old...friend of yours is giving us some trouble, and the Senior Partners have decided that right now, they're going to cut their losses in Los Angeles for the moment anyway. At least until this situation gets resolved by Angel.”

“You're just going to let him solve it?”

“As long as he's still possessed of that annoying soul, the Senior Partners have decided to make use of it. Now, do you accept?”

It wasn't a hard choice. Chicago or death. Chicago or death. Hell, she'd never been to the Windy City, why not start now?

“Fine.” 

“Good.” Manners said, no change in his tone. He cocked his head. “It sounds like its passed. I suggest you get moving if you want to reach the elevator and the White Room soon.”


	12. Brachen Siege

**Disclaimer:** Angel the Series, and the Dresden Files are not mine.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 12: Brachen Siege

 

**Brachen Clan Cavern**

**8: 02 am**

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, for agreeing to protect my clan from the forces of Wolfram and Hart. When they seek to get rid of you, they are no less relentless than the Scourge.” The leader of the clan, a Brachen by the name of Julius, told Wesley. They had been set up, waiting for an attack for just under two days, but the scouts – Little Folk that Wesley had bribed with pizza, after a suggestion from Harry Dresden – had just come back with word that there were demons gathering at the far end of all three tunnels. They didn't seem aware that Oracle Securities was involved, or at least not that they were as dug in and prepared as they were, but Wesley couldn't be sure. 

Wesley, Abigail and the rest of their little magical assault team was waiting inside the cavern that the Brachen Clan had taken refuge in, while Mark was out overseeing the set up in the central cavern. The plan was to wait for the Demons start throwing themselves – figuratively or literally – against the defenses in all three tunnels and let them chew lead for a while before Wesley and Abigail took the team – via the surface – into position to attack Wolfram and Hart's command post, wherever it was. The trick then, was figuring out from where in Undertown the enemy was leading the operation.

“Any impediment to Wolfram and Hart is good enough reason to help.” Wesley said in reply. 

“And you seem like perfectly decent people – well, demons, anyway,” Abigail corrected herself. “We're not going to just sit by and let the bad guys kill you and/or push you around when we can do something about it.” She turned to Wesley. “Though until we can figure out where Wolfram and Hart is leading this from, our hands are somewhat tied.”

Wesley nodded, “True.” Unlike some people, Wesley had no particular physical tick when he thought. After a few moments, he considered, “I think out best bet would be some kind of soul-detection spell, or something. We have a rough idea of where the enemy demons are gathering, and thus the lawyers have to be somewhere behind one of those areas, but close enough to keep a watch and issue order changes. I'm almost certain that anyone Wolfram and Hart would choose to serve as their direct agent in this wouldn't be of high enough rank to have signed away their soul, just yet, which means that they should be the only souls in the area, apart from us, barring a variety of unlikely circumstances.

“I'll talk to Anna. I think she knows a spell that we can make do the job for us.” Abigail said.

**Left Tunnel, Heavy Machine Gun Emplacement**

**8:11 am**

“See any of the demons that need specialized tactics?” One of the mercenaries said to the one next to him, who was busy scoping out the massing group of demons at the far end of the tunnel.

The mercenary in question lowered his night-vision binoculars. “Doesn't look like it. A whole bunch of those really nasty buggers, the ones with that thick exoskeleton armor, though.”

The first mercenary made a face, “Bah. Those fuckers who reflect standard rounds, you mean?”

The second nodded. “Yea. But we don't need to worry about that too much.” He patted the Heavy Machine Gun almost affectionately. “The ammo we'll fire from this one should be more than capable of punching through their armor.”

**Center Tunnel, Defensive Emplacement**

**8:13 am**

“ _That_ is a hell of a lot of Fyarl Demons.” Mark noted, looked out over the massed demons. He turned to Petrovich, “You didn't happen to bring along any silver bullets, did you? Could save us some ammo.”

Petrovich shook his head. “I did not expect to be fighting werewolves. If I had...” The he shrugged, “Besides, a bullet is a bullet is a bullet. The Fyarls aren't clumped together enough to make it so that we could target just them with the silver bullets, and not have them go into the others as well.”

“Meh.” Mark double-checked his ammunition. “What are they waiting for?”

“A signal, I would assume.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “Obviously, but what are the hell-lawyers waiting for?”

“Maybe they just want to let us stew. They have to know we're here, waiting for them. They may have lots of soldiers, but hiring and then throwing soldiers away gets expensive. The question is, how stupid do they think we are?”

“So what? We could just have a stand-off, every sits here for the rest of the day?” Mark shook his head. “I've been reading some of Wesley's books – the ones in English, anyway – and the fact is that several of the demon breeds I see out there are impatient little fuckers. They're here to fight, so they'll fight.”

“I bet you ten dollars we don't end up fighting.”

“Fine.”

**Wolfram and Hart Forward Operations Center**

**8:15 am**

“Marcus Lott was an idiot.” Lilah said, folding her arms in front of her. “I'm not sure how he managed to get put in charge of the Special Projects Division here, but its certainly a good thing that he got removed from his position as soon as he did. If this plan of his had gone through, we'd be on the verge of war with Marcone, and quite possibly with the White Court, and, if we were monumentally unlucky, the White Council too.” She looked pointedly at Denna Frost and Richard Carlise. “Wolfram and Hart values initiative as much as it does anything else. So the most important question I have for the both of you before I decide what your futures with the firm looks like is this: Lott was an idiot, and you both knew it as much as I do. So why didn't you kill him?”

Denna and Richard didn't have much of an answer for that. Both had considered Lott a virtual nonentity, and that was entirely true. Almost all their plotting had been spent on the other, as the principal threat to their own advancement. Lilah, if she had been a more physically expressive person, might have facepalmed. “ _ This _ is the latest crop of lawyers, the best and the brightest we can get? Either more lawyers are developing consciences, or the bar has been lowered for graduating Law School.”

“How exactly would this have gotten us a war? Our forces and Marcone's have been fighting each other across Undertown for a month now.” Denna interjected. “This is just an extension of that on a larger scale.”

“Its that very extension that's the problem.” Lilah replied cooly. “Skirmishes are things that both sides can sweep under the rug, especially when in at least half of those instances we've had plausible deniability – or at least close enough for government work – on the issue of having anything to do with them. But a full-scale frontal attack on a clan of demons that expressly went to Oracle Securities for protection – and that now has that protection – is a provocation that cannot be ignored. The Senior Partners would not have let it go to a war – their standing orders on that subject remain the same – but they would've handed the heads of the three of you over to Marcone, as well as some concessions to keep the peace. And concessions are never good for the firm.” 

“So what are we going to do? Call the entire thing off? _That's_ going to look good.” Richard snapped. 

“Actually, that's exactly what we're going to do.”

**Center Tunnel, Defensive Emplacement**

**8: 20 am**

“Okay, now I know something's wrong.” Mark said, watching the mass of demons part. And not for some bigger, stronger demon, or anything like that. It was a runty little demon, the size of what – a lawn gnome? And was that a _white flag_ it was holding? “I think they want to surrender.” He lowered the binoculars and shouted, “Look, I'm all for you surrendering to us, but I was kind of hoping to kill some of you fuckers before we got to that point. Could you do me a favor and come back in about an hour, or something?”

The tiny demon actually took out a megaphone -sized to be small enough that it could use the thing without falling over – and spoke through it. Its high-pitched voice screeched through it and echoed around the tunnel. “Wolfram and Hart would let to negotiate this particular conflict of interest to a close. Send Wesley Wyndam-Pryce through to talk.” There was a pause, then, “You can send as many people as want with him. Killing him is not on the agenda.”

Petrovich looked at Mark. “I think you owe me ten dollars.”

Mark frowned at his friend's deadpan tone. “Jackass.” He spoke into his radio. “Wesley?”

“Yes? Is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure if _wrong_ is the proper term, but completely unexpected and out of left-field, yes.”

“I've been in the colonies too long.” Wesley said, playing up his native accent, rather than the more softened one he'd acquired in the five years he'd been in the United States. “I actually understood what you meant with that phrase.” He sighed. “Next thing you know I'll be pouring my tea into the cup when there's no milk in it yet.” That last part was muttered, then, “So what is this unexpected thing?”

“They want to negotiate?”

“And you haven't killed any of them yet?”

“No. Its kind of annoying. Sent some demon the size of a lawn gnome in with a white flag and a tiny megaphone to deliver the message too.”

There was a pause, then, “That demon – its more a construct, actually, if its what I think it is. It serves as mouthpiece for the person controlling it, so they can talk directly through it without exposing themselves. Well, tell them they can come through.”

“Not going to be that simple. They want you to come to them.”

“And why on earth should I do that.”

“Well, they did say that you could take whoever you wanted with you. And that killing you was not on their to-do list.”

“That's still no reason for me to go to them. They're the ones who want to do the negotiating, not the other way around. I need a reason if they really want me to come to them.”

Mark lowered the radio and shouted back at the demon...construct...thing. “Wesley needs a reason for him to go to you.”

There was no response from the thing for a moment, then, “Tell him the following: Like, will he go straight to his car, or will he stop to warn her fist? Tell him exactly.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He'll know.”

“Fucking Christ...” He lifted the radio again. “It told me to tell you the following, exactly: Like, will he go straight to his car, or will he stop to warn her first?” The slightest intake of breath as he finished could be heard from the other end of the line.

“Interesting. I was frankly not expecting her to show up.” Wesley said after a moment, his voice completely toneless. 

“Someone you know?”

“Quite well, unfortunately. Don't expect to hear the story, however. I'm coming forward.”

“Want me to go with-”

“No.” He kept going before Mark could protest. “Killing someone during negotiations is considered bad form, at best, under the Accords, and Wolfram and Hart, if they really wanted me dead that much, would find much better ways to do it. Besides, this...person is...slightly more disinclined to kill me than your average Wolfram and Hart employee.” 

**Wolfram and Hart Forward Operations Center**

**8: 45 am**

Wesley honestly had to say that Wolfram and Hart had managed to throw him for a loop, completely. Bringing Lilah over from L.A....he certainly wouldn't have seen it coming in a thousand years. He wondered idly if he'd have seen it coming in one thousand and one years, but chased that thought out of his head as he approached the mass of demons. The remained parted, more than enough for him to pass through with plenty of room on both sides, but he kept his focus and awareness up. He wasn't surprised, however, when he passed through unmolested.

The construct led him through the rest of the tunnel to a collection of tables, with a variety of radios and magical implements on them. Apart from the one leading him, there were no demons. Just Lilah and two other, younger, lawyers. And a dozen Wolfram and Hart security forces.

“So, Wesley, I don't think you ever actually answered my question. What was it like, when she cut your throat.”

Wesley lifted his right arm and three inches of his sword extended out of his sleeve. “And my answer remains the same. Are you terribly anxious to find out?” All the guards immediately leveled their guns at him.

Lilah smirked and made lowering motions with her hands. The guards immediately obeyed, and Lilah looked back at “Don't you know its bad form to answer a question with a question?” Then she nodded at the sword. “Nice toy. I'd ask if you were compensating, but then I know first hand that that's not true.”

“As enjoyable as the witty banter is, can we get to the point? You asked to negotiate. What exactly are we negotiating on?”

“The fact that we're going to leave the Brachen Clan alone.” Lilah said calmly. “By appealing to your protection, they've essentially made themselves part of Marcone's extended organization, and therefore attacking them is too much of a provocation for war. My predecessor was...an idiot, frankly, and didn't seem to get that. The only reason I went this far in setting it up today was just to get a face to face with you.”

“Seems a bit much.” Wesley remarked, retracting the sword. “If you wanted to talk, I'm sure you could've just arranged to have someone ambushed by vampires for my viewing pleasure.”

“Are you still hung up on that? Come on, don't tell me you didn't take at least a little enjoyment in keeping her prisoner in your closet for the entire summer.”

“Talked to her, did you?”

“Not so much talked as...extracted. I was curious to find out first hand exactly what she did to Angel, once she finally turned up.” She waved her had, as if to encompass the entire situation. “The rules of the game have changed, here in Undertown. The lines have been made, and since this will make clear to anyone inclined to that going to you for help will protect them from Wolfram and Hart for the foreseeable future, things will probably cool down, down here. That's why I arranged this. To make that clear to you. Wolfram and Hart still has more than enough forces to do what it wants, and I've no intention of being bled white. We'll be leaving you to deal with other things, for the moment. After all, Gregory of Arles isn't going to stake himself, and I'm curious to see Lindsey wearing a Gray Hat in the courtroom.” She looked pointedly at the two other lawyers. “Wolfram and Hart facilitates. We don't...create.”

“Tell me. Who is in charge of Wolfram and Hart Los Angeles Special Projects Division, since your here?” Wesley asked idly, preparing to turn around. 

“No one. Operations in Los Angeles are suffering from a severe case of everyone who works there is dead now. Except for myself.”

“Oh? Angel?”

“Please. He's too much of a white hat again to do that. No, just the latest big bad. The Senior Partners decided to let Angel and friends handle it why they reallocate resources. Like here.” Wesley turned to leave. “Be seeing you, Wesley.” She nodded to the others and they left as well. She nodded to one of the lawyers. “Have some of the demons pick everything up to go back to the offices.”


	13. Preparing for the Second Round

**Disclaimer:** $0 in profit is being made from this story. I own nothing. If I did, both BtVS and AtS would have gone differently, but then, I think most of us would say that.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 13: Preparing for the Second Round

Modern technology, the vampire called Gregory of Arles considered, was a distinctly mixed bag. Gasoline, explosives, lighters and flamethrowers were deadly, guns were an annoyance and a painful one at that, even if they were not lethal. Some things were just nonsensical to him – his mind, in many ways, was still stuck a few centuries behind, though not all the way back in 1117, when his sire had turned him.

But, modern technology did have one area that he really loved – communications. Before, if you wanted to send a message, or call a meeting of your lieutenants, you had to send out runners, or maybe carrier pigeons. Now, you could just pull out one of those marvelous little inventions humans had cooked up and press some buttons and you had a meeting arranged in minutes.

Such the one he was having right now with his personal children, Natasha, Daniel and Franz.

“How many new recruits do we have to work with?” He asked them tersely, not turning to face any of them. He was looking out the window of the penthouse he had made his lair in, onto the lights of Chicago at night. Another great thing about modern times. No city ever slept, making it so easy to find prey even at the darkest hours of the night. His hands were clasped behind his back.

“I have seventeen fledglings, my lord.” Daniel said, “And three mortals in the process of becoming thralls, as per your command.”

“Good. Natasha, Franz, what of your efforts?”

“Twelve fledglings, and four soon to be thralls.” Natasha replied. 

“Fifteen fledglings, and three soon to be thralls.” Franz replied. Daniel all but preened at his superior recruitment efforts. 

“Don't be so full of yourself, Daniel.” Gregory replied, still without having turned to see Daniel's reactions. Not that he needed to see them to guess how pleased his eldest still living child might be at his success. “As I recall, it was your plan that failed to kill the former Watcher and his minions, and cost me all the previous fledglings I had to work with. You've a long way to go to redeem yourself in my eyes.” Before Natasha and Franz could get too pleased at that put-down, he added, “And your plan to rid us of that kinetomancer served only to drive her into the arms of Oracle Securities, Natasha. And, Franz, as I recall, you were the one who let her escape you a few days before we left Cleveland. All of you have shown a displeasing record for failure recently, which has left me with only one logical conclusion – all three of you are utter incompetents in the planning department. I should never have let you make your own plans for anything. I am far too indulgent a sire.” He reached into his Armani suit and removed three knives. He threw them as he turned, and each one embedded themselves into the throats of his three children. 

“Next time one of you fails me, I'll be throwing stakes into your hearts, not knives into your necks.” He walked towards a table with a building plan laid out on it. “Its time to take the fight directly to Oracle Securities.” He glared at his children, whimpering in pain. “Take those out and get over here!”

AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF

“The power of secrets, Amy Madison, is in the accumulation.” Diocletian and his apprentice were in a dimly lit room, flickering candles providing all the light that they would have for this lesson. “Who has them, and who doesn't. You saw my fight with Dresden.”

“Yea.” Amy said dryly, “I saw him knock you back on your ass with a piece of jewelry. The great Diocletian, beaten by a trick so basic Willow could do it when she was in High School.”

“You mock the Red Witch Rosenberg, Amy, but it was  _ you _ who came to me, because you did not have the power to defeat her on your own.”

“I came looking for power, not lectures. So far, all you've given me is the latter and not even a taste of the former.” She snapped back. “I'm starting to wonder if you're nothing but hot air.”

“If you think so, then attack me. Strike me down, if its that easy.”

“You'll just turn my spells back on me.” Amy said, shaking her head. “I'm not stupid. But if you want me to keep being your apprentice, you've gotta to teach me something, or I'll leave.” To punctuate her words, she turned and made for the exit.

Diocletian's voice took on a sudden, deep overtone.  **“You will obey me, Amy Madison!”** His voice thundered, and despite herself, Amy found herself frozen in place.  **“Your true name is mine to control, Amy Madison, and thus, you. Your will is not your own. Now, kneel.”**

“Go to hell, bastard.” Amy ground out through gritted teeth, even as her legs disobeyed her and she collapsed to the ground, on her knees. Half the candles in the room went out, plunging it into even deeper darkness than before.

“Good girl.” Diocletian said, as if to a pet. “Now, to punish you for your tongue.” **“Amy Madison throw fire at me.”** Amy, though she knew what would happen, felt herself call up the magic and thrust out her hand. A ball of fire formed in it and flew at her teacher. Diocletian simply held out a hand, _“Interruptis Ignis!”_ The fire was, like Dresden's spells had been, caught in his hand. “Do not think to raise your shield, Amy Madison. You must suffer the penalty for disrespect.” He flung his gnarled, wrinkled hand out and the fireball caught Amy full force, sending her flying back, the hand she'd instinctively flung out to protect herself now a charred mass. Amy was in too much pain to even muster up the hatred she felt at the man, and at herself, for being so stupid as to end up in this situation.

“Next time, I won't let you throw your arm up, Amy Madison. You cannot comprehend just how far beneath me you are, but if you continue on the actions you are, I will show you the full force of my might.”

AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF

“You're sure this is a different enough spell that he won't be able to counter it like he did everything else?”

“It may be a fire-element spell, and it may use the same principle as your force ring – and be fired from rings, for that matter,” Bob the Skull said, “But its something you've never used before, and while you've used fire and ring storage on him, you haven't used them in combination. I don't know much about how his whole secret-thing works, but according to all the rules of magic I know, it should work. Once, anyway.”

Harry Dresden nodded as he slid the copper ring – which was really three copper rings fused together – onto his ring finger, and then put another on his middle and index fingers, replacing what had been the force rings. As long as Diocletian was the guy he could expect to go up against, those were entirely useless and obsolete. “This won't be enough to kill him. And I can't go hunting him with just one trick in the bag.”

“Maybe something _not_ force or fire? I know those area the areas you specialize, but there are three other elements out there, and all you've ever really used in battle is force and fire.” Bob said. Then, “Well, okay, you have _Ventas Servitias_ , but odds are he knows that one too. But that is the only air-element spell you've ever used in a combat situation.”

“Well, what do you suggest I do then? Make a tornado?”

“Well, no, that would be suicide trying to control that much power, but is a good premise...” Bob's voice trailed off a moment, then, “Alright, give this a try....”

AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF

“Okay, I am officially bored.” Abigail St. Pierre said, twirling her stake in one hand as she walked through one of graveyards in Chicago next to Mark. “We've been at this patrolling since the situation in Undertown stabilized, and we haven't seen a single Black Court Vampire since the first night. I'm getting the feeling they're not letting their new recruits be buried, anymore, since the patrols staked the fledglings. So why are we keeping this up? Chicago isn't a Hellmouth, where vampires run wild and sire fledglings every single night. Before this Gregory showed up, there weren't any Black Court in Chicago at all, right?”

Mark nodded. “Yea. Not since Dresden laid the smack down on Mavra, though he didn't do it all on his own. Had some backup, and ended up getting his hand fried by a Renfield with a flamethrower.”

“A Renfield?” Abigail hadn't read the book, but she had seen one of the innumerable movie adaptations of Dracula. “What the hell is a Renfield?”

“Exactly like the book has it.” Mark said. “Black Court Vampires, well, the really old ones, anyway, if they spend the time and energy on it, can psychologically break any human to be their complete and utter slave. Makes for perfect cannon fodder, though as I understand it, they don't like to make many, because keeping them all from going completely catatonic is not an easy task.”

“What did they call them before the book came out?”

Mark shrugged. “Who knows. Don't even know what the Black Court calls them, that's just what people call them these days. Its the closest fit. I mean, think about the word 'vampire'. Does it really fit the White Court? Or the Red Court, really, since they're not undead?”

Abigail nodded, “Yea, I guess.”

“But Vampire does work as a catch-all term for them. Enough for horseshoes and hand grenades, anyway.” Mark shrugged. “As for while we keep patrolling the graveyards, well, we need to earn our significantly above the American-average paychecks somehow. If the things that go bump in the night refuse to do so, we'll just have to be bored.” 

The two of them continued their circuit through the graveyard, encountering a grand total of absolutely zero vampires. They got back in Mark's car – well, the black unmarked company SUV Mark used, anyway – and drove back to the Oracle Securities building. While he was at the wheel, he asked, idly, “What's it like? Having magic, I mean? How do you know you have it, how did you deal with it?”

Abigail frowned, considering. “Well, magic's not entire genetic, but for me, I mean, my mother and grandmother both had their own little talents. Mom could actually make plants healthier by singing to them, my grandmother could put up all kinds of wards – nothing else though. I was raised with it. It didn't start manifesting until I entered puberty – that's how it usually works, though not always. Took a while for me to figure out exactly what I was doing, how to control it, but my parents were pretty well plugged into the local minor practitioners, and all that, so I did have plenty of people who could help me figure things out, keep me from losing control or something.” She shrugged. “I was pretty lucky. There are plenty of people out there – some with real talent, good enough to be full wizards, even – that don't get trained, they lose control of the magic, themselves. Up until the war started, the Wardens were usually busy tracking down those kinds of people, most of the time. They tended to avoid the Cleveland Hellmouth like the plague, though. Actually, I think they avoid Hellmouths in general.”

“So what, leave all the people unlucky enough to live in Hell on Earth to their fates?” Mark asked.

“Pretty much. The White Council is an organization of people who redefine ruthless, calculating pragmatism. And they're all jackasses to boot, from what I understand. And since the Cleveland Hellmouth is actually out in Lake Eire, we don't get world-ending attempts. Well, at least as far as I know. So they don't even have to bother for the big things, in Cleveland.”

“According to Wesley, you'd be surprised just how many attempts to end the world there are. But between everyone with a stake in keeping the world intact – at least for the moment – things manage to pan out so that we're all still here.”

“Think one day we'll run out of luck?”

Mark shrugged. “I pray to God every night that doesn't happen.”

AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF-AtS-DF

Wesley sat up and got out the bed he'd been laying in a moment before. He immediately set to redressing. As he was pulling his pants on, the person who owned the apartment the bed was in – and thus the bed itself – rolled to her other side and looked at him with a smirk on her face.

“Leaving so soon, Wes?” Lilah asked.

“Yes.” Wesley replied tersely. “I've no interest in staying in your apartment, especially not overnight.”

“Oh, come on, Wes, I don't bite.” She chuckled, “Well, not unless you ask politely.”

“This was a mistake, Lilah.”

The lawyer rolled her eyes. “We going to start with that again? I recall you saying it was a mistake when we slept together the first time, but we kept it up all through the summer and right until you left for Chicago.” She shook her head. “Whatever you may say, you can't stay away. And I certainly didn't hear you complaining while we were doing it.”

“Enjoying a thing doesn't make it necessarily a good idea.” Wesley said. 

“Doesn't make it a bad one either. You'll be back.” 

That...well, Wesley was not going to lie to himself. It was a mistake, a bad idea, and...he was going to do it again. Wesley wasn't one to lie to himself. He finished with his pants and then went back over to the bed, tangling one hand in Lilah's hair and pulling her up for a rough kiss. “I probably will.” He said, as he pulled back. He tried to step back, but she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down for another one. Finally they had to pull back for breath.

“Yes. You're definitely coming back.” Wesley turned from the bed, but Lilah added. “Oh, and Wesley?” He raised an eyebrow. “Don't die.” The ex-Watcher nodded and left grabbing his coat from the hook by the door as he left. Time to head back to Oracle Securities. He had Black Court to kill.

**Author's Note:** A brief explanation is in order, I believe, to reconcile some of the Dresdenverse and Buffyverse interpretations of Dracula and the book based on him. According to the Dresdenverse, Dracula is the son of a powerful demon thing, Vlad Drakul, whom Kincaid has worked for/does work for (It was unclear on this point, from my recollection.) Dracula joined the Black Court out of teenage rebellion, apparently. The Book Dracula was published by the White Court as a guide on how to kill Black Courtiers. In the Buffyverse, he's a generic vampire who got bonus powers from gypsies, and published the book – for the money? The hell of it? In the universe of this fic, Dracula's weird, non-Black Court powers come from his heritage of whatever Vlad is, and he was paid by the White Court to help Bram Stoker write the book, and he went along with it since his powers made him immune to the staking, etc anyway. 


	14. The Black Court V.S. Oracle Securities. Round II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Dresdenverse or the Buffyverse

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 14: The Black Court V.S. Oracle Securities. Round II

**Oracle Securities, 3** **rd** **Floor**

**2:04 am**

Abigail St. Pierre was not tired.

She knew she should be. It was two in the morning, and she hadn't slept for nearly thirty hours. Between patrolling last night and spending all the time she had in-between practicing her magic or going up against Mark and his men in hand-to-hand practice – and getting thrown on her ass each time, unless she used her magic in the fight, which was part of the whole point of the training – she hadn't stopped for sleep. She was too wired, both on adrenaline and caffeine. Something was going to come. She knew it. She didn't know how...just one of those gut feelings you get, like the cops on the TV shows.

So instead, she was pacing through the halls of the Oracle Securities building, floor by floor, working her way downwards. She had purposefully chosen to put the room she'd made her home – such as it was – in one of the rooms near the top of the ten-floor building so that she could work a healthy exercise every morning coming down from it. You didn't fight the supernatural by being out of shape. And it doubled as her office. By the standards she was used to, it was enormous, after all.

She wasn't a powerful magic-user by any stretch. She was damn good at kinetomancy, but that was a limited field, and she was hardly the best at it in the world. She'd probably die before she got that far. She rubbed at her eyes. She made a mental note to make herself another pot of coffee when she got to the ground floor – she was too wired to fall asleep and too tired to stay awake. Then it happened.

She wasn't powerful, by any stretch. But even she was powerful enough to  _ feel _ the wards set up around the building by that Gard woman, as well as the one person skilled at wards they'd brought on board to her department. There was a veritable explosion of magic in her head, the backlash giving her the worst headache she'd ever felt for a few seconds. 

The building was under attack.

**Oracle Securities, 1** **st** **Floor.**

**2:05 am**

The two guards standing just inside the door on the ground floor didn't need magical senses to feel it. The wards immediately went up at night and blew when someone tried to force the doors – since attacking in broad daylight was not in the cards for any supernatural threat.

Two men, walking in a slow, shambling gait had been the culprits.

“What the hell-” One of them said, “I'd say they're zombies, but I can't tell it they're rotting.” He reached for his handset. “This is Johnson, at the door. We have two...people, I think, coming at the door. Walking like zombies from bad movie. We expecting them?”

The Russian-accented voice of Mark's second came back. “No. Let the wards deal with them.”

“I'm pretty sure they're people. Doesn't that go over the whole 'laws of magic' thing?” Understanding the Laws of Magic and the necessity of _not_ drawing the ire of the Wardens was a must at the company. Anyone who teamed with one of the magic-users for anything had to, unfortunately, devote small part of their attention making sure the magic-user didn't actually kill a human with their magic. If any humans were around, anyway.

“Gard's wards don't count, as I follow it. Or so the boss told Mark, who told me.” Petrovich replied. 

“Alright.” Johnson shrugged and lowered the handset, turning to his companion. “They can't be human. Gotta be some kind of zombie.”

“They're not rotting, like you said.” The other replied.

“I don't know – they're fresh. Bet you ten dollars.”

“Oh what the hell, fine.” The shambling walkers were drawing close to the door. “Maybe we should step away from the door. Who knows how these things are going to work.”

“Uh, lightning blasts, I think.” The two stepped back. Just in time to hear a thunderclap and see the two people go flying back charred husks. The guards looked out the window. And saw five more right behind them. And...

“This is Johnson. We have five more of those zombie-men, and coming up right on behind them are at least thirty of those black court fuckers.”

Petrovich didn't waste time with cursing. “All units in the building, immediately to the ground floor. We have black court approaching. They're sending something else in to make the wards go off first.” Then he made two calls. “Mark, we're under attack. Black Court.” Then, “Boss, we got Black Court coming at us, right now.”

**Outside Oracle Securities**

**2:08 am**

“The Renfields will render their wards useless.” Daniel said, with a smirk. “Truly you are a tactical genius.”

“Compared to you, certainly, you pathetic moron.” Gregory snapped. He folded his arms front of him, watching as his brood waited for the rest of the Renfields to - 

And then the doors were kicked open and two of the enemy's soldiers stepped just outside the doors and opened fired on the Renfields, killing them before they could get to the doors. Then they ducked back inside. Daniel hissed in anger. “My lord- how can – the wards!”

Gregory just smirked. “You think too small, Daniel my dear.” The sound of a helicopter approaching came from overhead. “In this modern era, attacking from above is an extremely viable option.”

**Oracle Securities Roof**

**2:10 am**

A black, unmarked helicopter descended upon the empty rooftop of the building. The doors slid open and ten vampires, game faces already on, jumped out.

“Lord Gregory's orders were very clear,” Natasha barked to her minions, the wind kicked up by the helicopter's blades messing with her blonde hair – to her annoyance. “No feeding. Just kill. If I catch any one of you feeding, I'll rip your heart out, are we clear?” There was a chorus of 'Yes Ma'am's in response to her words. “Alright then.” She smirked – the effect somewhat ruined by the fangs. “Let's go.” Two decades-old vampires ripped the metal door leading down into the building off its hinges with minimal effort. Within moments, all ten were inside the building.

The helicopter pilot, yet another vampire, spoke into his radio. “Lord Gregory, they're in.”

“Good.” Came the voice across the wavelength. “Take off.”

“My lord?” The pilot was confused. “Am I not supposed to serve as an escape route for Natasha?”

“No. Either she can do her part to achieve victory here, or she can die trying. If she wins, she'll be able to leave through the front door, if she loses...well, I have no need for a failure in my ranks.” The icy words of the old Black Courtier almost sent a shiver down the room-temperature body of the pilot. The promise there was clear – if you ever fail, you'll be dust shortly. Gregory of Arles had taken the gloves off.

**Oracle Securities, Ground Floor**

**2:12 am**

“Is that everyone in the building?” Abigail asked Petrovich nervously, as she looked out a window at the vampires still massed outside.

The Russian man nodded. “Everyone. We should be fine. They have to come in through the doorway-”

Abigail shook her head. “They've been waiting there for too long. Gregory – he's smarter than this. I've never met him, but I've seen some of his tactical handiwork, back in Cleveland. He'd know a frontal charge in through the doorways would be suicide...and yet he gave us time to get everyone together down here...something's wrong.”

Petrovich had been having the same thoughts, though he'd not vocalized them. Unfortunately, he had no idea what else the plan might be. The basement of the building was entirely secure, with no connection to Undertown, and no way for an enemy to attack from below.

The idea of an aerial insertion and attack from above, frankly never occurred to him.

“The basement!” Abigail said, as if reading Petrovich's mind – and getting the exact opposite of what he was thinking. “He'll send-” She didn't even take the time to finish her thought. Before Petrovich could tell her to stop – tell her that the basement was entirely secure, she was already hurrying down into it. He didn't make much of an effort t call after her, or send anyone after her. Something about the prospect of facing this 'Gregory of Arles' character freaked her out significantly, and robbed her of her ability to think entirely rationally. Maybe not the best idea for her to be in the room when the fighting started, when it came to that.

**Wesley Wyndam-Pryce's Car, En Route to Oracle Securities**

**2:14 am**

“Pick up damn you!” Wesley muttered furiously into his cell phone as it rang. He'd already dialed three times and let it ring out to the end the previous two times. He didn't have time to leave a message. He needed Dresden to wake up – he was, presumably, sleeping. Mark was making calls as quickly as he -

Wesley's attention was drawn away from his phone, and from the attack on his people by the oncoming sidewalk. He pulled the wheel to the side, narrowly avoiding the curb. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” He muttered again, as it continued to ring. Finally there was a pick up on the other end of the line, Harry Dresden's voice coming through groggily.

“What?!”

“Mr. Dresden, I am aware that the hour is early, but I need your help. Black Court Vampires are attacking Oracle Securities. I got the call minutes ago, and they were just about to get past the wards into the building. I have no idea if my men there are still alive, or what, nor just how many vampires they have to deal with. Your skills might make the difference between life and death for any number of my men.”

When Dresden spoke this time, he still sounded tired, but less so. “I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dresden.” Wesley hung up.

**Oracle Securities, Basement**

**2:15 am**

Nothing. There were no vampires in the basement, and absolutely no way she could tell for them to get in. Still, she searched. Attacking from the basement had been a favorite tactic of Gregory's brood in Cleveland. That  _ had _ to be his plan. She'd never seen the master vampire in action himself, but...he wasn't an idiot, by everything she'd seen while on the Hellmouth. Besides, vampire or no, an idiot didn't live as long as he had...

She started frantically checking every room of the basement, starting with the armory. While she was at it, her mind raced, working through possibilities, trying to figure out what the vampire was up to.

_He has to be planning something. I mean...he obviously knew there were wards, or he wouldn't have sent those Renfields in first to trip them. He had to know there'd still be guards on the ground floor, inside – it would be stupid of us not to have them there, and if he judges by our previous successes, he has to know that we're not stupid. Vampires do tend to be overconfident though, especially when dealing with normal humans...._

_But if he was overconfident, he'd have had his minions charge in as soon as the guards took out the second batch of Renfields. They're just standing there, waiting for something to happen...what then? Even if the wards were a hundred percent down, now that we've had prep time, it would be insane to just run in – you don't need to be a tactical genius – or even that mediocre at tactics – to grasp that..._

_ It can't be standard Vampire underestimation of the power of guns – there previous battles have shown that while a bullet isn't going to kill a vampire like a stake...they can still hurt and kill the other guys – plus there's those...what did Mark call them? Dragon's Breath shells? Those have been used too....if he's not coming in through the basement _ .

Room after room, she kept hitting on nothing.

**Oracle Securities, Ground Floor**

**2:16 am**

_ How long are they just going to wait there... _ was the nearly universal thought passing through the minds of all the assembled Oracle Securities mercenaries.

Natasha had just one thought in her mind – showing up Daniel and Franz, and making herself, thus, look better in the eyes of Lord Gregory. The other vampires in her group had a variety of thoughts, but all were waiting for the signal to attack. They were one flight of stairs above the lobby.

Natasha, standing at the bottom of the stairs, hiding – not that hard since all the people in the lobby weren't facing the stairs anyway, their eyes firmly on the door and windows in the front, and the vampires massed beyond them – raised a hand slowly, then brought it down in a swift chopping motion. The signal.

Moving as quietly as a group of ten vampires can, they went down the stairs. Natasha slunk back into the shadows of the far wall, making her way slowly around the room, her target the doors – if she could open them from the inside...

She would be passing right over the entrance to the basement, and Abigail was coming up the stairs.

However, the ten vampires were in among the guards. Within moments, a sickening crack could be heard, then another. Two guards fell limply to the ground, necks snapped. And all was chaos. The quarters were two close for their automatic weapons, and while they all carried stakes...it only took moments for them to close ranks, giving ground. The guards and the vampires were equal in number, and while they were all trained soldiers and good at what they did, vampires were vampires.

_ We are dead. _ Petrovich thought to himself as he ducked a swing and managed to knock a vampire's legs out from under him with a lucky kick. He was rendered unable to capitalize on the fall and stake the vampire when another one of the undead knocked him to the floor with a punch. 

Natasha, back to the wall, passed right over the stairs. At the exact moment Abigail turned and saw the woman slowly edging past the stairs. She didn't recognize her, and her first assumption was vampire – but if she was wrong... she thrust out her hand, “ _ Expello! _ ” Natasha went flying. Drawing a stake, Abigail approached the fallen blonde, who pushed herself off the ground and turned to see the source of the spell. The two recognized eachother instantly. They'd crossed paths before.

“You're that damned kinetomancer bitch!” She charged at Abigail, “You've caused me enough trouble already!”

Abigail threw her stake and with a word, propelled it right into her target – Natasha's heart. “And you're a vampire.” With a scream Natasha collapsed into dust. She was old enough that it took a split-second longer, first her flesh dusting, leaving a skeleton for a few milliseconds before that too collapsed into dust. Abigail looked down at the leftovers of the two-hundred odd years old vampire. “That was for my mother, bitch.”

Natasha's death was noticed by two of the vampires, who were distracted for just long enough to be knocked aside. The mercenaries, as a group, kept a tight formation and hurried out of the surrounding group of vampires, short another two members, leaving a total of four bodies behind.

“Into the basement.” Petrovich said. “Regroup, get white phosphorous grenades.” He nodded to Abigail, who threw another stake – though this missed – and ducked back onto the stairs.

Natasha was dead, but all of her minions still stood. They knew plan. Natasha may be dead, but the door still needed to be opened. A race ensued to see who could open the door and thus earn Lord Gregory's favor for the mission's success. The struggled cost them vital time, though eventually the doors were opened.

**Oracle Securities, Basement**

**2:20 am**

Once again, Oracle Securities forces were arrayed to riddle anyone coming through a narrow entrance with bullets. It was all they could do, after all. Instead of doors, though, this time it was the stairs. And this time, they had no worry about an attack from the rear.

Though that  _ was _ what they'd thought four dead bodies ago.

**Oracle Securities, Ground Floor**

**2:24 am**

“Now what, my lord?” Franz asked Gregory. Underneath his obsequious tone and manner, he was inwardly dancing with glee at the death of Natasha. Now all he needed to do was eliminate Daniel – and that would be easy. The German vampire had already planned on killing Daniel during this fight anyway – in a pitched melee, no one could be sure _who_ killed _whom._ At least not sure enough for him to get blamed for it. So he planned, anyway. 

And now with Natasha dead, he would take his rightful place at the right hand of Gregory of Arles.

“Now we force them out of their hole.” Gregory replied. “They need to breathe. We don't.” He nodded to two of his minions coming into the door, dragging between them a large steel barrel. “We open up and let the gas out. They'll have to come up or be knocked out – and either way they'll be ripe for the eating.” The minions set the barrel down right in front of the stairs. He nodded to several more minions, who left the building for a few moments and returned with three large fans. Once they were in place he lifted the lid and turned on the fans on. 

**Outside Oracle Securities**

**2:26 am**

Wesley and Mark were crouched near the door, watching the assembled vampires stand around the fans and the barrel. Mark had called the mercenaries that weren't at the building, and they were on their way...they couldn't attack thirty-odd vampires alone. Even a Slayer would be insane to go in like that.

“Please tell me you have a white phosphorous grenade on you.” Wesley said to Mark, double checking his stake launcher as he spoke. At the very least he aimed to take out Gregory of Arles in all this. If he could just figure out which vampire it was...

“I don't keep the things at my house, Wesley.” Mark replied. “You called Dresden, we have to wait until he or at least some of the rest of my men arrive. I don't like just sitting here anymore than you do, but-” He was interrupted by the sound of car speeding around a curve, the skid screeching across their ears. A multicolored, patchwork Volkswagen came into view. Only one car looked like that. Dresden was out of it seconds after it stopped. 

“How many Black Court in there?” The wizard asked, producing his blasting rod from one sleeve. 

“Thirty, give or take. Feel free to let loose with the fire.” Wesley said. “Its easier to remodel a floor than replace dead colleagues. Right now, there's only vampires on the ground floor.”

“Sounds good.” Harry Dresden went to the open doors of the building and stepped inside.

**Oracle Securities**

**2:28 am**

Gregory of Arles produced a fob watch from his pocket and checked it. “We should be getting a result soon enou-”

“ _Fuego!_ ” The shout from behind them drew attention. Three men were standing in the doorway. One Gregory recognized as Harry Dresden, assuming the descriptions were accurate. The others he knew to be Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and Mark Farrel. They'd arrived faster than he'd expected. He should have placed the cell-phone jammers sooner. Ah well. 

His thoughts were interrupted when exactly what the wizard had said registered with him. Gregory was fluent in a dozen languages, and besides, the fire blasting out from the wooden rod in the man's hand was clue enough. Gregory and a handful of others managed to dive down as the wave of fire hit them. A half-dozen were dusted instantly, and the wizard threw another blast.

Daniel and Franz were also down and dodged the first blast. Franz, however, saw this as a perfect chance. Lord Gregory was busy trying not to die – and doing a good job of it, as he threw one of his own minions into the oncoming flame. Franz grabbed his rival and threw him, struggling though he was, into the fire as well.

_ Note to self: Wizards are officially as much trouble as Slayers. _ Gregory thought as he ducked under the third blast of fire and charged right into the three men, knocking Wesley to the ground – and getting a long gash across his chest for his trouble from the man's sword.  _ A collapsible sword really is a good idea _ . The vampire couldn't help but think as be abandoned his entire brood to their fates.


	15. First Eye

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Angel the Series or the Dresden Files

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 15: First Eye

**Unknown Cavern in Undertown  
3:13 am**

Gregory finally stooped his flight from Oracle Securities over a half an hour after it started. There was no doubt in his mind that he hadn't been pursued, but he wanted to put as much space between himself and what was left of his brood as possible. He had been overconfident. After a century and more of being the top vampire on the Cleveland Hellmouth, he'd assumed the same would hold true on Chicago. Instead, he'd nearly gotten himself killed. And he couldn't even pin the blame on incompetent minions – it had been his plan from the word go. 

No. It was that never to be sufficiently damned Englishman, and that wizard friend of his. When Wolfram and Hart had offered him an obscene amount of money to relocate to Chicago and help them deal with this group of human mercenaries led by a former Watcher, he'd expected it to be easy money. He'd used the firm's services before, and performed services for them as well, over his long life, and he'd been familiar with previous mortal instruments of the demonic trio calling itself the Senior Partners. He expected it to be more of the same. And while he had been top vampire on the Cleveland Hellmouth, it was still a much smaller city than Chicago, and the overall vampire and demon population meant the struggle for feeding grounds and the like was stiff. Unlike in Sunnydale, where no Master Vampire could go for long without drawing the attention and thus ire of the Slayer, numerous broods of vampires and demons had divvied up Cleveland and the area around it, fighting eachother as much as the handful of groups of mortal hunters – minor talent casters, focused practitioners, just determined people with no powers at all. Never a threat to him, but always annoying.

So the idea of going to Chicago – a place with no competition – when combined with the massive payout Wolfram and Hart offered had been too tempting to turn down. He should've stopped to wonder why Chicago had such a low Black Court Population. The presence of the Red Court, under Bianca had explained it for a while – the demonic creatures inaccurately but efficiently labeled as vampires had no love for their 'Black Court' cousins. House Raith was the person he had suspected, since one of their main centers was just outside of the city. The emotion feeding white-bellies hardly wanted the – in their view – vulgar Black Court around their city.

But Wolfram and Hart had assured him the White Court wouldn't be a problem. He'd thought it meant they'd done their usual thing, negotiating and cutting deals. Not so much. The White Court wasn't a problem because the real reason why the Black Court didn't last long in Chicago – and thus why they avoided it – was because of Harry Dresden. Gregory knew that now. Wolfram and Hart had played him for cannon fodder.

_The way I see it, I have three choices..._ He could stay here in Chicago, try to make a new brood and try again. And die, soon enough, with only fledglings to work with. He could run with his tail between his legs, back to Cleveland, to try and reclaim his status and rebuild his little empire, or maybe to somewhere else – perhaps back to Europe. Or he could stay here and think outside the box. He would be there, to see this Wesley Wyndam-Pryce die. Preferably at his own hands, but if he played a role in the smug English bastard's defeat, that would be enough for him. And that damn wizard would pay too.

“I'll see them both dead.” He swore. “All I need is something more...I need power. And I need more powerful minions.” Black Courtiers were the strongest of the three breeds of vampire. And even they'd proven to be not enough. He looked around the cavern and then set off down one of the tunnels he hadn't come in through, chosen at random.

**Wesley's Office, Oracle Securities  
4:18 am**

“Apart from the dead, we have injuries ranging across the map.” Mark reported. “Cuts and bruises to broken arms and legs.”

“Did any of them have families? The ones that died, I mean?” Wesley asked, his voice a little quieter than usual.

“No wives or children.” Mark said. “One of them had a fiance. They all have family of one form or another.”

“Get me the contact information.”

“Wes, you don't need to-” The former marine started, but Wesley cut him off.

“Yes I do. They were my responsibility. It's my fault they're dead. I should make the calls. I'll just have to come up with something...some kind of cover story, for how they died.”

“We're fighting a war, Wes. People die in war. I don't like it any more than you do.” Mark replied. “But you can't blame yourself. Unless you pulled the trigger, or set off the bomb yourself...or whatever it is that killed them, you can't blame yourself for the deaths. You didn't see this coming, I didn't see this coming, Abigail didn't – none of us did. The most we can do is make sure it doesn't happen again.”

“Gregory got away.” Wesley said softly after a few moments of silence. “That bastard vampire got away – I almost had him, and instead, he managed to escape.” He entered a few keys into the computer on his desk and brought up the security camera footage of the ground floor, around the door. “Also this one.” He zoomed in on another vampire escaping a bare half-minute after Gregory. “Abigail says she's pretty sure this one is called Franz, one of Gregory's chief lieutenants. His others were that Daniel we met down in Undertown, and a woman named Natasha, who Abigail says she took out. I have no reason to doubt that, so it looks as if we're down to two Black Court vampires in the entire city.”

“Unless they start recruiting.” Mark commented. “Besides, after the thrashing they just got, what's to say they'll stay here?”

“Nothing, but for the moment, I want to proceed under the assumption that they are.” Wesley replied. “Vampires are nothing if not absurdly stubborn.” _And that applies even if the vampire in question has a bloody soul._ Wesley thought spitefully. He rarely spared many thoughts for his old 'friends' in Los Angeles. When he did though, it was even more rare that he spare pleasant thoughts for them. Angel, Fred, Gunn, Cordelia, even Lorne. It wasn't quite hate, but it was close.

Mark saw the angry expression on his employer's face, and suspected, from what he knew of the man's past – and of this so-called vampire with a soul he'd worked for, that Wesley was once again thinking about his former friends in the City of the Angels. He shook his head. _Whatever happened to give Wes such a hate-on for them...its not healthy for him._ He liked the guy – somewhat, anyway – but the man was borderline crazy, in his mind, and even a little scary. And Mark didn't scare easily.

“Alright then.” Mark nodded. “I'll see to it.”

Wesley nodded, staring off into space. He was going over Gregory's escape in his mind. Sooner or later, he would catch up to that damned vampire. He would see him die.

**Red Court Lair, Undertown  
7:13 am**

If Denna Frost and Richard Carlise were at all nervous to be alone in a – admittedly large - cavern with nearly ninety vampires of the Red Court, they did a very good job of not letting anyone – not even each other – notice. Not that that surprising. After working at Wolfram and Hart for any length of time, very little visible fazed you. Usually because a person just stopped getting fazed by anything after long-term exposure to Wolfram and Hart, its clients and their...habits. Most of the time in fact. The rest just learned to swallow their bile and grin and bear it. Working Wolfram and Hart was nothing if not the perfect place for the strong of stomach and weak of morals.

Plus, it never did to allow a rival to see you in even a split second of weakness

Richard stood back, behind Denna, allowing her to be the one to talk to the two Red Court vampires that had come up to 'greet them' as they entered the cavern. Just the way he wanted it. He had no problem with vampires in of themselves, and the death and destruction they wreaked was par the course for the kinds of client he dealt with on a daily basis. Nor did he have a problem with feeding his fellow humans to these vampires, which was exactly why there were here to begin with. Thanks to the little deal Denna had made – which, personally, he thought was more than a little stupid, given the geopolitics, as it were, of the supernatural world right now, but Lilah had authorized it as 'exactly the kind of thing Wolfram and Hart is here for'. _Which is very true. Though I can't wait until this whole thing blows up in Denna's face, and hopefully bitch Lilah will catch some flak from the Senior Partners for this too._ He went back to his previous train of thought, shaking his head a little as he did so. Having those thoughts wasn't healthy, even in private – since you were never sure if you were in private when you worked for Wolfram and Hart.

No, he didn't have a problem with feeding his own species to the Red Court. That wasn't why he'd not been fond of being sent along with this meeting.

No. Richard's problem was with meeting with vampires in general, because regardless of the Court they were part of and regardless of the fact that they would be rather unlikely attack and feed off of him thanks to his employment by Wolfram and Hart, every vampire he'd ever met with – and he'd met with vampires of all three Courts – always looked at him like he as food. Which, technically he was, but he sure as hell didn't enjoy getting looks to that effect.

“You have nerve, walking in here, human.” One of the vampires started. Denna still didn't – visibly at least – let the words or the tone effect her. The vampire stepped closer to her and ran a hand through the lawyer's long hair. “I've also found blondes so...delicious.” Richard laughed. Denna remained unfazed, but slapped the vampires hand away.

“I'm with Wolfram and Hart. Specifically, about a delivery of humans that Baron Zaragoza has contracted us to deliver.” The blonde woman continued. “I'm quite sure that his grace is not interested in loosing the money he's already paid and the humans you'll be getting just because you'd like a snack.” 

The vampire that had spoken stepped back a little, an annoyed expression on his face. “You will wait here. I will get the Baron.” The cavern was large, and unlit. Plus there were no doubt collateral caverns and tunnels for the eighty-seven Red Courtiers to live in. The vampire turned and vanished away into the dark areas not lit by the small, weak lights both lawyers had with them. 

Denna turned to Richard. “You couldn't sounded a little less eager about that vampire draining me of all my blood.”

“What can I say?” Richard gesticulated widely, smirking. He couldn't quite pull off the 'who, me?' expression he was trying though. “I hate you. I'd love for you to die – and at the hands of vampires you made a deal with no less, which would have some lovely irony. And, as an added bonus, I'd lose the only rival I have for advancing in the firm.”

“You really think Lilah will promote you? Believe me, I'll have your balls on a big shiny silver platter long before I die. I hope you enjoy singing soprano.”

“I don't sing.” Richard replied flatly.

“You will.” Denna told him, one eyebrow cocked. “A big a shiny silver platter.” 

Baron Fernando Zaragoza cleared his throat from the side. “I'm not entirely sure what I've interrupted, but I believe that whatever it is, it is entirely irrelevant to the reason the two of you are here.”

“Mostly, your grace.” Richard said. “Its an old argument between myself and Denna, but it should not infringe on our ability to serve our clients.”

“We have secured the humans in the quantities you requested. You have paid part of the fee up front, but before we arrange for the portal to Pylea to open and bring in your purchases, we'll need the rest. Here's the invoice.” Denna reached into her suit jacket and pulled out a tri-folded piece of paper, which she handed to one of the Red Courtiers, who in turn passed it to Zaragoza.

The Baron looked up with a raised eyebrow after unfolding and reading the invoice. “This is more than the agreed-upon price.”

“We had some unexpected overhead.” Denna, smiling. “You will of course pay the entire listed price if you want your product.”

Zaragoza scowled angrily. “Does Wolfram and Hart really think that they can cheat me?!”

“We're not cheating you.” Denna replied. “We're lawyers. If you'd read the fine print of the contract-”

Zaragoza lunged at her and pinned her to the cavern wall, one hand clenched around her neck. “I need but to apply a little more pressure and you'll be trying to breath without a windpipe.”

“Sounds like a plan. Kill her, and I'll pay the difference in price myself.” Richard said, cheering the vampire on. 

“Kill me,” Denna managed to get out in a strained voice, “and you'll never get your product. I'm the one here who knows how to open the portal. Not Richard, and sure as hell not you.” _That son of a bitch will die. Slowly, if I have any choice in the matter._

Zaragoza looked from Denna, to Richard and then back to Denna. Despite no longer needing to breathe, he let our an angry, long suffering sigh. He stepped back, letting Denna fall back down to the ground, barely managing to catch herself against the wall, so as to stay on her feet. “Very well. I brought the agreed upon price with me.” He nodded to another one of his vampires, who carried a briefcase. “I will have to get the rest. However, I do warn you, lawyer.” He spat the profession out like a curse. “If you cross me again – if any of you cross me again, I will not stop until I have lain waste to your offices here in Chicago.”

“Even if you succeed in that task, you won't have enough vampires left standing to complete your other goal, the whole reason you're here, skulking around in the dark, dank caverns of Undertown rather than setting up some place in the open, like Bianca did before you. Killing Dresden, the man you're so terrified of that you're hiding in here like scared little bunny rabb-” Zaragoza lunged at Denna, unwilling or unable to take her taunts any longer. But he recoiled, angry burns forming on his hand. Denna smirked and held up the silver cross for all of them to see. “Crosses aren't as bad for you lot as they are for Black Court, but they're not particularly pleasant either, as I understand it. Now, can we do business, or shall we leave.” 

Zaragoza made no reply, but nodded to another of his brethren, who turned around and vanished into the darkness, returning with several bundles of hundred dollar bills. Zaragoza took those and the briefcase and handled the whole pile of money to Denna. 

“See? I knew you had it in you.” She reached into her coat and placed the small crystal she withdrew on the ground. She spoke a few words that had far too many consonants to be a human language, and then the air swirled and a portal opened. “Your humans are just on the other side. Speak these words to close the portal when you're done.” She handed a piece of paper to Zaragoza. “Just sound them out. Too many consonants, I know, but what can you do about demon languages?”

**Wesley's Office, Oracle Securities  
11:13 am**

“...and in other news, the hunt is on in Southern California for the escaped Faith Lehane. Wanted for murder, Lehane turned herself in in 2000, confessing to two murders and various assault charges. Yesterday afternoon, Lehane broke out of , reportedly punching right through the glass in the visitors area, and severely injuring two guards on her way towards the window, which she leapt from-” Wesley turned the television off in the middle of the anchorwoman's sentence. 

Faith had broken out of prison. _Wonderful._ He'd always suspected her desire to redeem herself had been too good to be true. He hadn't warned Angel of the impending attack by the Council's wet-work team because he cared about saving Faith's life. No. He'd done it because Angel was – well, had been, at the time – his friend, and he hadn't been willing to betray that friendship, even for the opportunity to return to the Council. Though, by that point he'd already come to the conclusion that the Council and everything it said and did was approximately 75% absolute rubbish. Returning to the Council simply hadn't been that important to him – at least not at the cost of betraying a friend, Vampire or no.

Still, the fact that she'd managed to stay in there for nearly three years was an accomplishment in of itself. He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd broken out after a month or less. 

Wesley picked up the phone and dialed Mark's office. “Mark.”

“Yea?” 

“There's a woman – Faith Lehane. She's apparently just escaped from prison back in California. Now, I doubt I'm that high on her list, but on the off chance I'm wrong, I'm issuing a kill on sight order for her. Have her picture shown to all the guards. If she comes near the building, I want her killed.”

“What the hell is she?”

“One of the worst things I can conceive of – a Slayer that's gone rogue."


	16. Five Card Draw

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Dresden Files or Angel the Series.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 16: Five Card Draw

**Wesley's Apartment  
9:15 pm**

“Come on Wesley, you can hardly hold me responsible for what happened at your offices this morning.” Lilah told the Ex-Watcher pacing icily in front of the couch she was sitting on in the Englishman's apartment. The dark-haired lawyer took a sip from the beer in her hand. “Neither I nor Wolfram and Hart told or asked Gregory to attack Oracle Securities, and neither did we, for that matter, give him and his brood any support – material or otherwise – for his ill-conceived effort.”

“Ill-conceived?!” Wesley snapped at her, stopping his pacing and turning to face her. “He killed four of my men and injured a not-insignificant portion of the rest.”

“At the cost of just about his entire brood.” Lilah retorted. “If Wolfram and Hart was in any way, shape or form behind the attack, we would have corrected the flaws in his plan. First of all, guns. You don't bring fists and kicks to a gun, sword and stake fight. And more importantly, he should have just charged into the basement no matter how entrenched your men might have been after they fled into it. We would have directed him to do that if we wanted to attack Oracle Securities so directly.

“Perhaps, but it was Wolfram and Hart who paid him to relocate to Chicago in the first place. He would still be on the Cleveland Hellmouth if your firm hadn't gotten involved. And more importantly,” Wesley continued, “you can't tell me that the money paid to him to come here wasn't, at least in part, used to support his attack, directly or indirectly.” He returned to his previous pacing.

Lilah shrugged. “Okay, you have me there. But Marcus Lott, for all his deficiencies, was never stupid enough to want a direct attack on Oracle Securities. That wasn't what he had in mind when he had Gregory contacted and brought in. Its just not how Wolfram and Hart operates in his dimension. And, perhaps of more immediate importance, to me at least, _I_ still can't be blamed in any way shape or form for what happened. I wasn't here when the call was made to bring Gregory to Chicago. I was still in Los Angeles. So don't take your frustrations out on me.” Then she smirked. “Well, not in the way you seem to be right now anyway.” She gestured to the empty spot on the couch next to her. “Sit. Your pacing is starting to annoy me.” Wesley didn't sit, but he did stop pacing.

“Be that as it may, you are still an evil, soulless employee of a law firm run by demons that is actively working towards the end of the world.”

“Cut the holier than thou.” Lilah scoffed. “Okay, granted, when you get right down to it you actually **are** holier than I am, but A – that kind of attitude doesn't really suit you, and B – when you get right down to it, the vast majority of humanity is holier than you are, given that you work for a mafia boss and well...you're borderline psychotic.” She chuckled darkly. “Not that I mind, of course. And more importantly, you've known that I'm an evil, soulless employee of Wolfram and Hart the entire time we've known eachother, and you still choose to sleep with me. And not just once either. And yet again, here I am, a card carrying member of Team Evil, so to speak, sitting on your couch drinking your beer, and before the night is through we'll be having sex in your bed. Or,” She smirked. “on the floor, the couch, the table. You get the idea.” 

Wesley sighed and sat down on the couch next to her. “I never once claimed to be perfect. I'm just less imperfect that you are. Besides,” he added, “it causes no harm to myself to keep in mind exactly what you are and who you work for, and will probably extend my lifespan. Given that I half-expect you to stab me in the back in my sleep at some point.” Although his tone carried with it a hint of facetiousness, the truth was that a part of him – small part by this point, admittedly – **did** worry about that possibility. And yet here she was, and, he considered, she was exactly right about what would be happening before the night was over.

_Dear God I really need to get into a healthier relationship._ As always, however, he didn't let himself mire in the self-loathing associated with his 'relationship' – such as it was – with Lilah for more than a few moments. Instead, he opened and took a sip from the other bottle of beer that had been sitting on his coffee table. McAnally's, of course. 

“Oh, give me some credit Wes. If I wanted to kill you, don't you think you'd be dead by now. Or at least I would have made the attempt – successfully or unsuccessfully?”

“I never said you wanted to kill me yet.” Wesley answered glibly. “But the fact of the matter is that at some point you might consider that a desirable option, or circumstances at or regarding Wolfram and Hart will require it.”

“How about I promise to give you three-days notice before I try to kill you?” Lilah asked with a slight smile.

Wesley shrugged. “I can't really trust that, now can I? If I got it in writing...” He shrugged again. “Maybe.”

There were a few minutes of silence between them. “Faith went and broke out of prison.” Lilah noted.

“So I hear.” Wesley replied noncommittally. 

“You're not worried?”

“Not really. I'm not arrogant enough to think I'm that high on Faith's list of people to kill. I'm sure Angel and everyone back in Sunnydale ranks higher on it than myself, and with any luck, they'll prove themselves capable of dealing with her. And if she does arrive, well the ability of supersonic lead to end the vast majority of arguments leaves me quite confident there won't be a repeat of our previous...encounter.”

**Denna Frost's Office  
8:30 am**

“Miss Frost?” Denna looked up from her computer at her secretary, who was standing in the doorway of her office. 

“Yes?”

“You're 8:30 is here.”

“Send her in.” Denna replied. She quickly opened the relevant folder, to refresh her memory of this client. The Firm, of course, had a dossier on the woman, but Denna had never Jacinta Drake before.

A tall, dark haired woman walked into her office less than a minute later. Denna took a chance to quickly give her a once-over as Jacinta made her way to the empty chair on the other side of Denna's desk. She wore black robes that were trimmed with blood red, and her hands were covered by thin black gloves. The woman's sleeves were too long for her to see, but Denna knew that the gloves would go all the way up to Jacinta's elbows. Part of the uniform.

“Good afternoon, Miss Drake.” Denna said. “Please, sit.” She indicated the chair, even though it was the only other chair. 

“I prefer to be called Jacinta, Lawyer.” She replied imperiously. 

“Of course.” Denna bit back several comments that came to mind. Although her breakaway cult was much smaller than the one led by her brother Lucien back in California, Jacinta Drake had substantial financial resources at her disposal, and staying polite to her – however difficult doing so was – was just good business sense. “How may Wolfram and Hart help you, Jacinta?”

“There is an island, out in Lake Michigan I am attempting to purchase. However, there have been legal...complications that have made the purchasing process take much longer than I'd like. I would like for Wolfram and Hart to clear them up.”

Denna steepled her fingers. “I'd have to know precisely what 'complications' we're talking about, and of course, what island in particular you're seeking to purchase.

**Richard Carlise's Office  
9:12 am**

Richard Carlise slammed the phone into the receiver almost hard enough to break it. _Damn Dresden!_ That maddening wizard was fast proving to be **the** greatest annoyance to Richard Carlise in a world full of things that annoyed Richard Carlise. Even more so than that eternal bane of his professional life, Denna. One more case had gone up in smoke because Dresden had kept a key witness alive and well long enough to go to trial.

The only comfort was that Denna was suffering as much as he was, as were all the major trial lawyers. Unfortunately, with this latest case to collapse, Denna was now ever so slightly ahead of him in the usually neck-and-neck race between them for status and success in the company. 

“And If I'm not careful, the damn bitch will leverage that into a way to leave me into the dust.” A 'ding' sound from his computer distracted him, and he smiled when he saw who had written the newly arrived e-mail. Recruiting Denna's secretary had been quite the coup, and while the information was usually mostly useless, every little bit helped in their conflict. He opened the e-mail in question, smiling within the first few words, his grin only growing wider as he read on.

It was time to have a word with Lindsey McDonald. This wouldn't be of particular use to him to improve his own position, but...

Letting the traitor know meant letting Oracle Securities know. And Oracle Securities was in a position to turn this information into a lead weight around Denna's neck.

That this would hurt the firm was a whole was irrelevant. Wolfram and Hart could handle plenty of hits. His long term career interests was more important than a minor set back for the company.

**Diocletian's Hideout  
2:37 pm**

“I do not part with secrets easily, Miss Drake.” The old man said, his voice rattling out from his hooded face. “Why do you think I would tell to you the secrets you are asking for? If, for that matter, I even know them.”

Jacinta rolled her eyes. “If you're about to tell me that keeping a secret about knowing a secret, you can just shut up. I'm not here for a lecture about the power of secrets. I'm here to make a trade.”

“What is it you have to offer, then?”

“I'm sure you are well aware of the dark magics my brother and his idiotic followers out in the West Coast have recently acquired through the sacrifice of their children.”

“Yes.” Diocletian replied. Powerful cults did not accumulate magic like that without garnering notice. “Where is this going?”

“I can tell you the secrets about those magics, and...well, what you do with that is irrelevant to me. Trade it, use it. I don't really care.” Jacinta replied.

“That is an interesting offer.” The old warlock replied. “But I don't think that that information is as useful or as powerful as the secret you are asking me to impart to you. _But,_ that said, it is useful and powerful. I have a counter-offer. Amy!” The old man called out into the darkened doorway leading deeper into the structure he'd taken as his residence in recent days. A brown haired woman wearing all black stepped into view. She had a slightly sullen, angry expression on her face. “This is Amy, my apprentice. I will give her the information you seek, and she shall perform the rituals that those secrets are required to perform. Then, of course, you shall have what it is you seek.”

“I can hardly trust that.” Jacinta replied.

“You know full well that when I actually deign to give my word to anyone, I keep it.” Diocletian replied harshly. “And I control my apprentice utterly, for I know her true name.”

“Prove it.” 

“You are idiot if you think I will use her true name in front of you, and thus allow you to share in that control, Jacinta Drake.”

“I have a third name, so don't think you know my true one.” Jacinta replied haughtily. 

“Of that I am well aware.” He replied. “But that is my final offer.”

“Give me your word first, and then we can make our transaction.” Jacinta replied after several minutes of intense thought. There was no way she could pass down the opportunity to get what the rituals produced, even if she had to go round-about like this. With the power it would give her, she could bring down her fool of a brother and add his cult to her own, like it should have been before Lucien used underhanded tactics to steal it from her, forcing her to lead this breakaway group all the way to Chicago in an effort to both evade death and garner the power she'd need to take back what was rightfully hers.

Diocletian bowed his head a moment, hands clasped in front of him. “I, Diocletian, give you my word that if you give to me the secret of the dark magics your brother, Lucien Drake, has been acquiring through the sacrifice of his followers' children, then I shall give my apprentice the knowledge of how to awaken Azhelmenek of Makhash. At which point I will order said apprentice to perform the rituals that knowledge imparts, and grant you, Jacinta Drake, control of Azhelmenek.” The warlock intoned his words with a careful solemnity. You could say many things about Diocletian, most of them bad, but he took oaths very seriously. The oath done, he raised his head and lowered his hands. “Satisfied.”

“Not really.” Jacinta replied. “But that will have to do.” 

“Very well. Amy, return to your room and resume your exercises. I will call for you when I need you.”

“Of course, Master.” Amy replied insolently, but she did as she was told. Diocletian turned back to Jacinta.

“Well?”

Jacinta frowned, but held up her end of the bargain.

**Bar  
6:15 pm**

Richard hadn't come back to this bar since his first encounter with Lindsey McDonald – the risk of getting caught fraternizing with a traitor to the company was too much, in his mind. But he did know that the head of Oracle Securities's legal department still drank here on a semi-regular basis, doing his best to bother those Wolfram and Hart lawyers, clerks and paralegals that _did_ still drink there. And occasionally getting useful tidbits of information from them about various cases. 

That was the main reason why this whole meeting left a bad taste in Richard's mouth. Lindsey McDonald had, like Dresden, been blowing Wolfram and Hart cases up left and right. The firm was still winning most of its cases, or tying them up in technicalities for months or years to come – the resources it had on hand, even leading aside jury brainwashing meant that they were still top dog, legally speaking – but Lindsey was still proving to be an annoyance, and more than one of Richard's cases had been lost to Lindsey and the rest of Oracle Securities's legal team. Usually in tandem with Harry Dresden pulling witnesses that were supposed to be dead or on the run out of his hat. Obviously the two were working in collusion to create as much trouble for Wolfram and Hart as they could.

Richard saw Lindsey drinking at the bar. It was easy to recognize him even if you hadn't met him before. His sleeves were rolled up just a bit, and the tattoos that protected him from magical and technological surveillance were visible to all. Richard sat down at the stool next to Lindsey, ignoring the other lawyer for the moment, and ordered a Jack Daniels. Once he drink arrived, he sat down and continued to, almost pointedly, ignore Lindsey.

Eventually, Lindsey smirked and spoke. “Long time since you've been here, Carlise.” The Texan drawled. “Given that you've been avoiding this place since I started showing up here, and now that you're back you're sitting next to me, I'd assume you're here for me.”

“Are you always this egocentric, Lindsey?” Richard asked as he took a sip from his drink.

“I'm a lawyer.” Lindsey quipped. “It's part of the job description.”

“How much do you know about a man called Lucien Drake.”

“He's a warlock that leads a cult out on the West Coast. What does that have to do with Chicago?”

“He's got a sister, name of Jacinta, and she's got herself leading a little cult that broke away from Lucien's. And they've shown up in Chicago.” Richard continued, “They decide to ask Denna to clear up some legal barriers to a certain purchase they're looking to make.”

Ah. That would explain why he's here. Lindsey was reminded of his own rivalry with Lilah. He suspected she'd made the same connection from her position at the top of the pyramid here in Chicago. Though he wasn't sure if he'd have gone as far as selling out a client to an enemy of the firm like Richard was doing. Then again, until Angel showed up, there weren't really any enemies of Wolfram and Hart worth mentioning in Los Angeles, and there simply hadn't been any opportunities to undermine Lilah by selling a client out. The one time he had blown the whistle, it had been his own project, and that had been because of an outcry from a conscience he'd long thought shriveled up and dead. Lindsey didn't say anything. He knew how the game was going to have to work.

“They're trying to get their hands on an island out in Lake Michigan.” He named the island in question. “Whatever they've got planned, I'm sure its not something involving happiness and roses. At least not for your side. I'm sure whatever it is will leave them thrilled, and Wolfram and Hart stands to do just fine from the fees.”

Now it was Lindsey's turn to take a sip from his drink. “Interesting.”

“Indeed it is.” Richard replied. Lindsey considered for a moment. This could be an elaborate plan on the part of Richard or Wolfram and Hart as a whole to hurt Oracle Securities. But if I wasn't – and there was good reason to believe that it at least wasn't 100% that. Lindsey knew first hand how viscous the conflict between rivals at Wolfram and Hart could be. Lindsey removed some money from his wallet and left it on the bar top, then left the bar. Once outside, he took out his cell phone and dialed Wesley. 

“Yes, Lindsey?” He heard the Ex-Watcher say from the other end.

“Wes. How much do you know about a Jacinta or Lucien Drake?”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar. But not much more than that.”

“Probably best if we don't talk about it on the phone. I'll meet you in the War Room in twenty. Have Abigail and Mark there too.”

“Alright.” Wesley said after a moment, then hung up.


	17. Ante Up

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Angel the Series or the Dresden Files. In this chapter I steal the description and of a type of Demon from D &D (if you know D&D you'll recognize it when you see it). I don't own that either. It belongs to Wizard's of the Coast, the masters at botching good roleplaying games.

**Author's Note:** Yes, I know that in Season 5 we learn that Wesley's mother is indeed alive, but this is fan-fiction. She's dead. So please don't complain to me how he talks to her on the line in episode 5x07. Thank you for your co-operation.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 17: Ante Up

**War Room  
6:35 pm**

“Lucien and Jacinta Drake used to share leadership of a cult they inherited from their father, one Tristan Drake.” Lindsey said. “Rather generic dark magic cult, albeit a fairly large one. Something approaching one thousand members or so, last time I heard back when I was with Wolfram and Hart. Lucien managed to drive Jacinta out of the cult, and she took some...couple dozen I guess of the cult with her.” He rolled out a map of the islands in Lake Michigan near Chicago. “Normally, all this stuff happening out on the West Coast wouldn't matter to us, but Jacinta Drake has decided to show up with her minions in tow here in Chicago. And she's decided to buy this island, here.” He pointed. “Now, I guess they could just be going there to have a little place to worship their dark gods in peace,”

“But if that's true, then I've got some property in Pompeii I'd like to sell you. Right on the mountain.” Wesley commented. He got odd looks from the other three – presumably for his choice of metaphor. He cleared his throat slightly, then looked back at the map. “Do you know anything about the island, or what kind of resources Jacinta Drake has to work with?”

“Just that she has a lot of money. We can assume her cultists will be well-equipped.” Lindsey said. 

“How did you get the information anyway? Can we trust your source?” Mark asked.

“I'm not sure if we can trust him, per se.” Lindsey replied. “Richard Carlise decided to come to me and leak the information because his main rival in the firm, Denna Frost, is the one brokering the deal for Jacinta.”

“He's betraying a place like Wolfram and Hart over a petty rivalry?” Mark looked doubtful. “This whole thing could be a trap. Do we really want to risk committing our people on intelligence like this?” He shook his head. “I don't think so.”

Lindsey nodded. “I'll give you that it is definitely possible that it could be a trap, but I don't think is. I've been in Carlise's shoes, remember. Competition is literally deadly at Wolfram and Hart. Lilah was promoted to head of her division back in L.A. after slicing her boss's head off. Not getting the promotion if you've been angling for it means that the person who did get the promotion is going to either kill you or have you transferred to one of the third-world dimensions. And if you fail too much, they'll just shuttle you on down to ritual sacrifices. If Carlise's feeling the crunch this could be the way he's trying to take Denna down a notch or two to even the competition out. Believe me – everyone at Wolfram and Hart places their own career over the firm.”

“Or,” Abigail countered, stretching the word a bit. “By the same token, this could be his attempt to get brownie points with the higher-ups. Kill a whole bunch of Oracle Securities' people in a way that doesn't violate the Accords.”

Lindsey gesticulated slightly, conceding her point. “That is quite possible.”

“But if it isn't a trap, then we can't just let Jacinta Drake and her cult get away with whatever it is they're planning on that island.” Wesley said for all of them. “We need to find out for ourselves one way or another.”

“I could send a team on ahead to find out...” Mark started.

Wesley shook his head. “No. if it really is a trap then we're just sending all or most of that team to their deaths. I'm not going to lose more people. Not so soon. I'll lead the team.”

“Wesley, you're the top of the command structure here. We can't have you dying on a reconnaissance mission.” 

“I will not send any of my own people to their possible deaths just to check if something is a trap unless I'm wiling to risk my own life along with them.”

Mark threw up his hands. “Oh sure, what the hell, let's just send the entire command staff out on a reconnaissance mission!”

“Not a bad idea.” Abigail said. “We're the best Oracle Securities has. You're thinking like a soldier, Mark, and that has its place, but this isn't exactly the kind of war you're used to. Sometimes you have to commit your big guns. If it is a trap, we're going to have to deal with dozens of cultists on the way out.”

“Not to mention a variety of minor demons.” Wesley added. “Cults like this accumulate the things like pack-rats, as it were.”

Mark shrugged. “My advice is that you shouldn't lead it, and we shouldn't send out the command staff.” He said firmly. “That said, if that is the decision, I'll go along with it. But if it is going to you, me and Abigail, I think we need a fourth person.” He turned to Abigail. “What about that pyromancer friend of yours? I've heard good things about him from Petrovich. What was his name...” Mark's voice trailed off a moment as he grasped for it. “Cross? David Cross, right?”

Abigail nodded. “Yea. I'd have to ask him, but I can't see any reason why David would say no.” Then, “So when do we leave?”

“We shouldn't wait long, but we'll need some time to prepare, get ready.” Wesley said. “We'll leave at midnight. Get some rest.” Wesley left the war room, heading for his office. He wasn't going to be taking his own advice. Sleep had been something to avoid, for many months now.

**Denna Frost's Office  
6:42 pm**

Denna picked up the phone in the middle of its second ring. “Denna Frost here. Talk to me.”

“Carlise took the bait. He told McDonald.” The low, rough voice said on the other end of the line.

“You're sure?” Denna demanded. 

“Look, I heard the whole damn conversation.” Came the reply. “I'm pretty fucking sure I know what I heard.”

Denna exhaled in exasperated frustration. “Fine. Your money will be in your account in a few minutes.” 

“It had better be there.” The man threatened, then hung up. Denna rolled her eyes, then turned to her computer, transferring the man's payment to his Swiss bank account.

When Richard Carlise had tried to suborn her secretary, the woman had – displaying a powerful and well placed sense of self preservation and career security consciousness – come to her and told her what Denna's longtime rival was up to. Denna had seized on the opportunity to have a conduit to feed false information to Richard. It had meant giving him some good information so he wouldn't catch on to the fact that her secretary was indeed still loyal to her, but now it had finally paid off, big time. She had concrete evidence of Richard betraying the company to a traitor and known member of a significant local rival. 

And, as a bonus, if Oracle Securities took the bait, she'd be able to claim credit for the deaths of anyone that damn company sent to investigate, but the blame really couldn't fall back on Wolfram and Hart – not directly, anyway, which mean Oracle Securities couldn't demand a redress of grievances.. And they would send someone, she knew. Several someones. They _had_ to. It was how white hats worked. It was what they did.

All that was left was to tell Jacinta Drake so she could actually set up and spring that trap. _Its not as if she can be lying in wait for them if she doesn't know they're coming,_ Denna mused to herself as she dialed the number of the cult leader's satellite phone. There were, of course, no land-lines on the island, and cell phone coverage didn't reach it either. It rang a few times, then it was picked up.

“I hope you have a very good reason for calling me,” Jacinta Drake's imperious voice came across the line coldly. “I do not take to interruptions well.” Denna rolled her eyes. The woman was more full of herself than most politicians were of shit. 

“We have a leak, here. We just found and plugged it, but we're pretty damn sure that he leaked your purchase to Oracle Securities.”

“The company owned by the former Watcher?” She asked. There was no worry or scorn – or really any emotional consideration in her voice. Just an intend to confirm they were talking about what she thought they were talking about.

“Yes.” Denna confirmed. “That company.”

“And you expect them to try and do something to interfere with my presence on this island?” _Of course I do, you moronic bitch._ Denna didn't vocalize that, of course. 

“I wouldn't be wasting your _valuable_ time if I didn't think that was a distinct possibility. They're white hats. They're not going to just sit there and let you do your thing in peace. Part of the whole 'they think you're evil' thing. And this in a country with religious freedom! Such a terrible shame.” Denna hammed it up in the last sentence.

Jacinta was not amused. “Very well. Thank you for the information. Wolfram and Hart will, I presume, have no qualms about me killing them?”

“Of course not. Go right ahead.” Denna said. Jacinta hung up at that, not deigning to reply.

**Oracle Securities Boat, Harbor  
11:37 pm**

“Go there, kill them all?” David Cross asked as the four of them got on the boat to take them to the island. It wasn't a large vehicle – just large enough to carry them and their weapons, and quickly. A larger boat was also owned by the company – this wasn't the first time Oracle Securities had had to go out onto Lake Michigan or one of its islands – but there was no need to take it when it was just the for of them.

“Essentially.” Wesley replied. “The odds are likely that we simply won't be able to kill them all with just the four of us, and the moment it does become too much for us to handle, we withdraw immediately.” Mark started the boat up, and soon they were pulling out of the harbor. Wesley watched idly as the brown-haired man lit the tips of his fingers aflame. The five words David Cross had just said were the most words Wesley had heard the pyromancer string together. Though, granted, this was only the second time he'd actually been around the man, the first having been a brief interview before hiring him on. It had pretty much been a foregone conclusion that he would hire the man though, since Abigail had recommended him. 

Wesley had some small talent with magic, and fireballs in particular, but the fact of the matter was that he was a third-rate caster on his best day. He had some variety of spells, which put him a bit ahead of David, but not by much, given just how much better with fire David was. 

As the boat skimmed across the surface of Lake Michigan, Wesley idly wondered what was going on back on the west coast, in Los Angeles and Sunnydale. Obviously, given that the world hadn't ended yet, the Hellmouth was still under control, and he could safely presume that whatever was behind the rain of fire in L.A. had been defeated by Angel and the rest of his former friends. Or kept at bay, or what have you. Part of him was curious if Angel had actually been the impetus for Faith breaking out of prison – perhaps he had needed the strength of a Slayer to help take whatever it had been down. He shrugged, mentally and physically.

He suspected whatever was happening in Sunnydale – something was always happening on the Hellmouth, after all, so he was safe betting on that – the destruction of the Watcher's Council was related to it. It had actually been a month after the fact that he'd finally found out about the destruction of his former employers, of the organization that he'd been raised to join and be a part of since birth....it wasn't surprising that it had taken him so long, given his isolation from the Council. While the destruction of its London Offices had been news, Wesley had somehow managed to miss it, and well...he wasn't the most approachable of men, and he suspected Mark and Abigail had presumed he'd already heard, and would talk if he wanted to talk. Lilah...well, it wasn't as if they talked much about anything of substance, their little conversation last night non-withstanding.

But....well...he had mixed feelings about the destruction of the organization and the death of so many of its core members. For all its flaws, the Council has functioned as force for good in the world, and they served an important and necessary role in the past. They tried their best, though like any long standing institution...things took on a life of their own.

But...in some areas, there methods were either questionable or dangerously antiquated. – and the irony of an organization that had remained willfully blind to the benefits of modern weaponry getting destroyed by a very modern explosive device had not been lost on him at all. Sometimes, thought, the Council's methods and policies had been both dangerously antiquated and questionable, such as the Crucimentum – and...well, they had fired him. True, he'd really deserved it, given how dismal he'd been at being a Watcher, but at the same time...he'd been so bound up in the rules, and guidelines of an out-of-touch and...for a time, he'd harbored a desire, a bit of a dream really, that he could redeem himself and rejoin the Council. He was raised from birth to be part of it, after all...it had defined him. But eventually...well, he'd burned his bridges with the organization after he'd sided with Angel over the issue of Faith.

And...well...he continued to hold to that action, continued to believe that it had been the right thing to do, that he would do it all again given the chance. Even after the 'Connor situation' had started...then ended so violently and shatteringly. Not even after Angel had nearly smothered him with a pillow did he regret his choice. He regretted other choices made before and after, but probably the one choice, the only choice he'd ever made that he hadn't regretted, was that one.

But...still...there were people in the Council that he had counted as friends, once, and somewhat still did, though they'd only kept in intermittent contact. There were people on the Council who hadn't been as bad as the rest of the organization had become...and their deaths were not something to be pleased about. And the death of all the others...they weren't evil. They were flawed – very flawed in some cases – men and women who were doing what they thought was best for the world, trying to protect humanity, to do good. And for a long time, and even right up to the end, perhaps despite themselves, they had succeeded in that goal, in the large picture anyway.

Of course, among those who had died...his father. Roger Wyndam-Pryce was dead. When Wesley had heard about that...well...mixed feelings didn't begin to cover the gamut of emotions that had roiled within him. 

In fact...the only reason he'd found out as soon as he had, about the Council's destruction, was because his father's lawyers had finally tracked him down regarding his father's will, which apparently the old bastard hadn't gotten around to writing him out of before his death. And with his mother several years dead and as an only child...Wesley had inherited quite a lot of money, and the Wyndam-Pryce Estate was well. Lovely.

Wesley shook his head violently, pulling himself from his thoughts and reflections back into the here and now Mark was still piloting the boat, and he saw Abigail and David talking – or rather, Abigail was talking to David, and David was either listening intently, or doing a very good job at faking such.

**The Lighthouse, Isle of Demonreach  
12:05 am**

“Azhelmenek of Makhash, hear my words and take these offerings. Hear them, and rise from your pit to forge a pact.” Amy Madison intoned. She repeated those words twice, then began the next step of the ritual, chanting in some long-dead native American language. Jacinta, watching this, scowled. She knew that Amy Madison was doing as Diocletian had sworn he would order her to do, but she didn't like it. She hadn't come to Chicago to have someone else summon Azhelmenek, then hand the making of the pact over to her. She had come to summon and bind Azhelmenek to her will, and use him to defeat her brother. In theory it should all work out well, in the end. Amy would perform the ritual that brought Azhelmenek to this dimension in a limited form, but enough that a further pact could be negotiated. Amy would then hand the reins of the magical forces she was tapping over to Jacinta.

But Azhelmenek was a tricky demon. Jacinta worried that during that transfer, the demon would be able to escape the bindings and enter this realm fully. Not a pleasant prospect. If he entered unbound... that damned Diocletian had promised that it wasn't going to happen, but his propaganda aside, he didn't know _everything_ , just half of everything. 

She sighed and looked away from Amy and at the rest of the half-chamber they were in. The two women were standing – well, actually, Amy was kneeling – in the bottom floor and room of a lighthouse. Half of one anyway. As tall as it ever was, somehow it had lost one side, as if it had been cleaved in two horizontally from the top, giving it a look resembling a cross-section of a shotgun barrel.

Jacinta continued to look around the half-chamber, her eyes eventually falling on the three offerings laid out for Azhelmenek. They were fairly standard fare for the kinds of things you offer to get the attention of a demon of Azhelmenek type and power. They were not the offerings that would go into the actual pact, but they would bring him here so they could strike a pact.

The first offering: A bowl of blood, one part the blood of a newborn – well, two and a half months old – baby girl and one part the blood of a male virgin. 

The second offering: A Sidhe child. Specifically, in this case, one from the Summer Court. Procuring that had been difficult, and was the main reason it had taken her as long as it had to come here once she'd crafted her plan. The golden-haired creature was chained to the ground, weeping softly and piteously as the cold iron of the chains burned at her wrists, angles and waist, like acid.

The third offering: A solid gold idol, about six-inches high. It was in this idol that Azhelmenek would reside as the pact was forged, the bargain struck.

What happened after...well...that was the whole reason for the negotiations in the first place.

Jacinta was distracted from watching the ritual by the sound of one of her followers entering the immediate area of the lighthouse, just as Amy switched to Sumerian for the next phase of the ritual. Jacinta turned to the approaching man, a scowl on her face. From the black, purple trimmed robes he wore, she knew he was a member of her inner circle – which didn't mean she'd bothered to learn the man's name. The cultists knelt to the ground before her.

“Forgive my interruption, my lady.” He said, somehow managing to avoid prostrating himself, though Jacinta presumed that the obsequiousness practically oozing out of him made that a difficult task. “But I bring news from those of your followers that you assigned to watch the beach.”

“Well, then, tell me! What did they see?” She demanded crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Of course my lady.” He said, inclining his head downward farther than it already was. Jacinta stood there, waiting for a minute, drumming the fingers of her right hand against her left upper arm as she waited. Finally, “A boat has come to the shore. There are four people on it, and one of them is clear the former Watcher, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”

Jacinta's expression turned pensive. So the lawyer had been right. Well, it was a good thing she had made plans to handle it. “Go ahead with the plan.” She ordered. “They will die here.”

**The Beach, Isle of Demonreach  
12:05 am**

None of the four Oracle Securities employees said anything as they got off the boat and put on their night-vision goggles – military quality, procured by Baldwin through one quasi-legal connection or another. The half-moon in the sky above would provide some light, but hardly enough to be relevant. They would need the goggles. Wesley drew a pistol and slowly screwed on a silencer. Abigail pulled one of her knives from her belt, twirling it in her grip. David didn't bother creating any fire just yet, and he kept the pistol he'd been given as back – in case he absolutely positively had to kill a human, since there would be no violations of the First Law under Wesley's watch. Mark had two silenced pistols, one in each hand, and a shotgun slung across his pack. He was the heaviest armed of them all, but he wasn't even carrying an assault rifle of any kind – none of them were going in loaded for bear.

Wesley went ahead, and saw two cultists in the tree cover at the edge of the beach. They looked like they were walking towards the beach, one of them smoking a cigarette, it looked like. Wesley gestured to the others and carefully sneaked his way across the beach. He drew close behind the two, who were talking about something in one demon dialect or another. Wesley could understand them, but he didn't bother listening long enough to make out more than a few words. With a flick of his wrist, Wesley had sliced his collapsible sword right into one man's neck and pulled it out, the cut going halfway through the man's neck. He was dead by the time his body hit the ground. Before the other man could react, Wesley had planted two shots in his forehead, even with the silencer, Wesley winced at just how much sound the gun made. He pulled out his radio. “Alright. We keep going.” The other three followed him into the treeline. There was a rough path, well-worn, through the treeline into the interior of the island.

**Island Interior, Isle of Demonreach  
12:09 am**

A small, bat-like demon flew down and landed on the held out arm of a man wearing red robes trimmed with black. The way the demon landed was much like the way a falcon might land on the arm of a falconer. It whispered something in the ear of its summoner, who nodded. They were approaching. As planned, the two 'guards' – cultists who had recently disappointed Jacinta one way or another and had been put there specifically to die – had been killed by the attackers. 

Now it was time to proceed with the next phase of Jacinta's plan. The trap was laid, and the bait was taken. Soon the jaws would snap...and then clamp around the intruders from Oracle Securities. The summoner lifted a radio to his mouth. “Send all manes to the target area. All other forces gather around it as planned.

**Path to the Interior, Isle of Demonreach  
12:13 am**

The sound of low moaning up ahead drew them all to a halt. There was a slight curve in the path just ahead. Carefully, they looked around and saw about two dozen demons up ahead. Wesley recognized their species immediately.

Three foot tall humanoids, Manes had the appearance of being morbidly obese, but were actually bloated with acid and rancid gas. Pus ran freely from open sores, and maggots were clustered at those sores. The creatures had jagged claws, and the teeth were little, better, yellow and half-rotted. The scum of the Hell Dimensions, Manes were pathetic beyond belief, among the most basic of demons, often consumed as food by more powerful demons in some of the less pleasant hell dimensions. They'd make plenty of noise dying no matter how you sliced it. But it looked like this wasn't some Wolfram and Hart trap, so they could go, pick up reinforcements and come back if the response to the noise was too much.

Wesley nodded to David. “Go.” David said nothing in response, but closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them as a fireball formed in each hand. He flung the magical weapons at the demons. Immediately screeches of terrified pain went up, as they raced like headless chickens, several burning quickly, having received the full-force of the fireballs. Wesley and Mark opened up with their pistols, and Abigail flung one knife, which punched right through three manes, killing them all in explosions of noxious gas and acidic smoke. The smell threatened to overpower them, and Wesley doubled over, fighting the urge to retch.

Which was what saved his life. Mark heard the tell-tale click of a gun, and dove to the ground, hard-earned instinct taking over. Abigail, through a combination of luck and skill managed to throw up a shield spell around herself and David just in time, though a bullet did pass through David's left hand, leaving a gaping bleeding hole in his palm as it passed on through as if his hand hadn't been there. David bit pain a cry of pain. 

Wesley was still alive because he'd doubled over, but he didn't escape unscathed. A bullet clipped hiss side, which reflected its course down to the ground than over his back. The wound was noticeable and painful, blood starting to seep slowly out of the wound. Wesley clamped his left hand to the wound as he fell to the ground.

The cultists ejected the empty clips from their AK-47s, loading new ones. Mark counted his blessings that he'd packed a few fragmentation grenades along with him – against Wesley's orders, actually. A small part of him took perverse pleasure in the idea that he'd be able to say 'I told you so', though that part of his mind was far from the control. As the cultists prepared to fire again, Mark threw the grenade he'd already pulled the pin from. He didn't bother to check how many of the enemy he killed, throwing an another grenade and unslinging his shotgun and firing that. He was joined by David, who threw a fireball at the tree cover they were used. Mark grabbed Wesley's free hand and pulled him up, and the four immediately turned and fled, the sound of more demons screeching coming after them, and bullets flying behind them.

They reached the beach within minutes, David having ripped strips from his shirt and wrapped them around his hand, which only did a little to stem the bleeding, but it was better than nothing. They were almost to the boat,

**The Beach Isle of Demonreach  
12:19 am**

“I don't think so, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.” Franz said. He'd fallen in with Jacinta Drake, given no other options, when she'd showed up in town, and now he had a chance to give some payback to Oracle Securities. He looked down at the remote in his hand and pressed the switch. The C4 that had been strapped to the boat blew. Fortunately for the four white hats, they were far enough way to dive down – Mark pulling Wesley with him.

They suffered no more injuries, but the fact remained. The team was stuck on the island, with a whole host of pissed off cultists and their demonic slaves and minions.

_They're fucked._ Franz thought happily.


	18. All In

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Move along now. Nothing to see here. Again I steal a demon description (This time of the Rutterkin) from D &D. Which is owned by Wizards of the Coast. If I owned that company...well, this is neither the time nor place to discuss that.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 18: All In

**The Beach, Isle of Demonreach  
12:20 am**

_Shit! Motherfucking Shit!_

Those were the first words to cross the mind of a momentarily stunned Mark Farrel. This entire mission had gone completely FUBAR – _Odds are that it was a trap from the word go. I'm going to kill that Carlise Bastard._ The cultists and their demonic minions were right behind them, and their only way to get off this damn island other than being stupid enough to try and swim the whole way back was now turned into so much scrap metal by means of a fiery explosion. As he stood there, Mark's mind raced for options, searching desperately for anything – _anything_ – and he was drawing a complete and total blank. And that frightened him more than he cared to admit.

“Oh dear.” Wesley said softly, still bleeding from his side. “We're fucked.”

“Oh look, its British understatement at its best!” Abigail snarked. Murmuring some words, the kinetomancer threw out her hand, and sand from the beach in front of them rose up, flying at the onrushing enemy at high speeds, the experience resembling being pelted by hail for the cultists and demons, who were forced to draw up short momentarily, buying time.

“Go!” Wesley said, leaning over a bit. “I'll only slow you all down.”

“No! We're not leaving-” 

“Yes you are, and that's an order.” Wesley cut Mark off, speaking quickly.

“They'll _kill_ you!” Abigail insisted.

“Possibly.” Wesley conceded, “But not if I convince them its worth their while to keep me alive.” As he spoke, the hail of sand finally passed by, dissipating, and the cultists and demons were finally running towards them again. “You, on the other hand will die if you stay here!” Unnoticed to Mark, Wesley dropped something into the marine's pocket.

“Dammit, fine!” Mark said with a furious, frustrated sigh. He unclipped his last grenade, pulled the pin and tossed it at the enemy. During the explosion, David took advantage of the momentary distraction to throw up a small 'wall' of fire in their path.

“Let's go!” The pyromancer said, grabbing Abigail's hand and running down the beach. Wesley glared at Mark and the former marine grimaced, but didn't resist any longer, obeying and following the two casters. 

With nothing between him and a mass of cultists entering firing range, Wesley dropped to the ground, falling underneath a hail of bullets. When they'd passed over him he rolled over and up onto his knees, holding up the hand that wasn't gripping his bleeding side in a gesture of surrender. “I surrender.” Wesley elaborated loudly and unnecessarily. “I have information that would be of use to your mistress.”

The leader of the cultists drew up short and raised a hand, causing the cultists behind him to draw up short and not fire again, and the demons behind him to just draw up short. He looked at Wesley, eyes narrowed. “Where are your friends, Mr.-” he saw them through the corner of his eye, down the beach, still running away. He hissed in anger and spun around, pointing to three of the cultists. “You, you, and you stay with me. The rest of you, GET THEM!” He pointed at Mark, David and Abigail. As the other cultists and demons ran off, the leader turned back to Wesley. “I have my doubts about your sincerity, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. I suspect this is just a pathetic attempt on your part to save your worthless infidel hide. I do not think you have information that would be of use to Lady Drake.”

“I freely admit that I am trying to save my own life.” Wesley replied cooly. “And if circumstances were changed, I would of course have no interest in sharing information with Jacinta Drake. But the fact remains that if it may extend my life, I have every reason and ability to give a plethora or useful information. It will be quite worth Jacinta Drake's while to keep me alive. Fee free to disarm me.” He felt a momentary rush of lightheadedness. “Though if you'll allow me to bind this wound, I can be of use to Jacinta Drake for a good deal longer.” He chuckled darkly inwardly every time he saw the four of them twitch when he said the given name of their leader. Clearly some kind of taboo for cultists of their rank.

“Mucius.” The leader said to one of his men. “Check him.” The cultist nodded and lowered his weapon, approaching Wesley, who made no sudden moves during the approach, and stood still while he was being patted down for weapons. Predictably, the cultist found his pistol and his collapsible sword and took them back to the leader.

Deciding that they were likely to let hum live – at least for the moment – Wesley tore several long strips from his shirt and sleeves, wrapping them around himself, biding the wound on his side with the makeshift bandages. _That'll have to do for now._ “Well, do I get to live?”

The leader didn't reply for what felt like an age, but was probably just a minute or two at best, then, “Put your hands on your head and stay in front of me where I can see you.” He gestured with his firearm, and stepped aside. Wesley complied with the man's orders and walked where directed. “I trust you about as far as I can throw you, watcher.”

Wesley sighed, “I haven't been a Watcher for four years, thank you very much. And I'll note the entire council has been destroyed for the last month, so such a tittle is doubly unfitting-” A short burst of pullets passed by his other side from the leader. Wesley wisely shut up.

**The Beach, Isle of Demonreach  
12:24 am**

Another hail of bullets came after them, clattering uselessly against the shield Abigail threw up behind them. The three Oracle Securities personnel were bunched close together as they ran, to give the kinetomancer the smallest amount of area she'd need to cover. Still, the nearly constant barrage of bullets from the cultists chasing after them was taking its toll on her.

“Can't...hold this up...much longer.” She said, gritting her teeth, a bead of sweat dripping down her brow. She had the power to keep it going for longer, if she needed too, but between the running and the bullets, and...she didn't have the focus and the power to keep it going for much longer, practically speaking.

“Can't you do anything, Cross?” Mark demanded, firing off several shots from his pistol, not looking back long enough to see if he actually hit or took down anyone. 

“I can't just throw fireballs back at them, if that's what you're asking!” David replied as he continued to run, stringing more words together than he had in years. “Kind of got the 'First Law' to worry about.”

“Isn't there some kind of self-defense clause!?” Mark demanded. The more he learned about the so-called 'White Council' and its Laws of Magic, the more he found the whole thing completely absurd. 

“Only when fighting someone using dark magic, and even then they put you on probation.” David replied. “Fucking hell, fine!” He pulled up short spinning around and raising another, larger wall of fire between themselves and the cultists. Technically, if some of them did decide to run through the fire, and died, they would've done it to themselves...he doubted that would hold up before the Council if they decided to get picky, but they were out of options at the moment. The cultists themselves didn't seem so eager to rush into the firewall, which was of the good, as they drew up short and for the moment, stopped chasing them. Very good. Abigail let out a sigh of relief, letting her arm fall to her side, as the shield dropped as well. 

“We can't stay,” She said, between gasping breaths, “here for more than a minute. We'll need,” another breath, “to get into the cover of the forest.”

Mark nodded. “Let's go. While they're still distracted. We need to find somewhere where we can hold up for...somewhere defensible, anyway.”

The three hurried into the trees, fortunately evading the notice of the cultists, who were going the long way around the wall of fire, thus temporarily turning their gazes in the wrong direction. Once they were in, They stopped again. 

_We need to keep moving._ Mark thought to himself. But they needed to be strategic about it. Running was eventually going to not work. They were stuck on this island, outnumbered by a factor he'd rather not think about, and eventually they'd run out of ammunition and Cross and Abigail wouldn't be able to cast more spells.

What they needed was a way off the island. Reinforcements. They couldn't do this...but they had no way of getting- there was a weight in his pocket that hadn't been there just minutes before. He didn't...he reached into his pocket and looked at what was in his hand when he took it back out. Satellite phone. _I didn't bring..._ It dawned on him. Wesley must have brought it. And somehow slipped it to him, before he'd ordered them to run off. He couldn't make the call here. Still too exposed. He turned back to the two casters. 

“We have to move. We're still too exposed here. Once we're somewhere safer, I can call for reinforcements. And way off this island. And we can get Wes.” He held up the satellite phone as he was talking. “Let's go.” The other two nodded, but David raised his uninjured hand, not talking, but indicating they needed to wait nonetheless. 

The Pyromancer tore a strip off his sleeve and wrapped it around his hand. _At least the bullet went right through._ He mused, keeping on the brighter side of things. A rather dim bright side, perhaps, but brighter was brighter. When he was done, he nodded, and they hurried off. 

For what was at least a few minutes they made their way deeper into the interior of the island, hopefully losing their pursuers, or forcing them to break up into more manageable chunks. And sure enough, when they eventually heard pursuers coming, it was a small group. And even better, it was only two humans, and four demons, which meant Abigail and David could unload on the magics, leaving Mark deal with the humans.

“Hey!” One of the cultists shouted, seeing them. He reached for a talkie-talkie, or some kind of hand radio from his belt, but Mark fired a bullet through it and his hand, which passed in through his stomach. While not necessarily dead, the cultists fell over, and would be dead if left without help soon enough. The other one started to fire his weapon, but they clattered on Abigail's shield. Mark fired again, and this time hit him somewhere in the chest. Mark squeezed off three more shots, and the men fell over, dead. That just left the demons, which David was left to handle, though Mark did what he could with his pistol until they came in close enough for his shotgun.

The four demons were maybe...six feet tall? Or thereabouts. Hunched and misshapen, their hairless green and violet mottled skin was stretched over bones that made up asymmetrical and deformed forms. Their heads were elongated, and even slightly bent, the tiny red eyes swelling with hate for everything and anything. They looked like the result of someone trying and failing to build an accurate representation of a human being from clay. In their hands they carried large double-headed axes. David didn't recognize them, but it as a fair bet fire would at least hurt them.

Muttering in Ancient Greek, David called fire to his hands, the orb floating bare centimeters from his skin. He couldn't keep it there for long. Pulling back his hand, he threw it out in an arch and it landed among the charging demons. One fell back, beating out the fire on itself, the other three, two of them a little charred, but unfazed, kept charging in.

Another fireball in, as the demons drew closer, and another demon went down. Now, though, they were close enough to shoot with the shotgun. As David took a moment to refocus his mind, Mark fired, the lead pummeling into one of the demons, sending it staggering backwards, but it was still alive. Then the other was on him. It swung its axe at the marine, who ducked underneath the blow and hurriedly fired his gun again, getting the demon full in the face from below. It fell back to the ground as the other one swung. This time it connected, but Mark did evade the worst of the blow, and instead of it slicing off his hand like the original trajectory suggested was the goal, it carried on down and cut deep along the side of his leg. Mark bit his lip, drawing blood, but fired again, as David threw a third fireball, dipping into his own reserves. But it was enough. The last demon fell back, dying in whimpering pain.

Mark lifted up the Satellite Phone, and dialed Petrovich. When the Russian man answered, Mark barreled over him. “The boat's been blown up, and we're stuck here on the island outnumbered and outgunned. Wes has been either captured or killed, and I doubt the rest of us are going to be able to last long without backup. Get as many as you can on a boat – hell, get that Dresden guy if you get a hold of him – and get your ass over here, and pull ours out of the fire!”

**The Lighthouse, Isle of Demonreach  
12:31 am**

Amy's casting had been going for nearly half an hour, moving through at least five languages. By now it had probably been more, but Jacinta had stopped listening after the fifth language – some obscure demonic tongue – anyway. The cult leader looked at her watch again, drumming the fingers of her other hand against her leg impatiently. As much as she wanted to complain to Amy about the slow pace of the spell, she knew she couldn't. These were powerful forces that the witch as working with, and they were equally delicate. The slightest distraction...

At the sound of people approaching from the trees, Jacinta turned away from watching – well, half-watching – the ritual. _I grow tired of interruptions. This had better be news of those meddlers' deaths._ The first to enter her presence was the obsequious member of her inner circle who had earlier informed her of Oracle Securities' arrival, and behind him, four lower-caste members of the cult, who also averted their gaze from her, keeping an eye on a sixth man in their-

Jacinta recognized him from photographs and descriptions. “What in the name of the Pestilent Gods are you doing bringing that man here?! I explicitly ordered that he and the rest of his team be killed! Not captured and brought before my presence!” Jacinta's voice was a low, angry hiss, doing her best to negotiate the conflicting goals of angrily berating her subordinates, and not interrupting Amy's ritual. “Did you at least kill the rest?”

“Ah...no, Mistress.” One of the lower-caste members said reverently. “They evaded us at the wreckage of the boat, but the rest of my men are in hot pursuit – they may already be dead by now.”

“And you didn't kill this one and follow after the rest of your men to confirm that fact why?!” Jacinta demanded. “Are you incapable of understanding 'kill' orders?”

“The Watcher-” the same man answered, ignoring Wesley's muttered 'Ex-Watcher, if you please,' “surrendered. He claims to have useful information...that he knows things of value to you. I did not believe him, but only you can judge the truth of such claims.”

Jacinta resisted the urge to facepalm. Not for the first time, she wished she'd made more of an effort to instill at least a little initiative in her minions. Some did have it, regardless, but not enough of them. For all her arrogance and her desire to control everything around her, Jacinta wasn't an idiot. _I can't be everywhere to issue orders to everyone._ “Whatever information he might have is entirely irrelevant to our purpose here, and when I issue an order, I expect it followed. Kill-”

“I really wouldn't do that if I were you, Jacinta.” Wesley interrupted coolly, smirking at the reaction of the cultists. “Its true, I don't have any information of use to whatever it is you're doing here – or rather what that striking little witch of yours over there is doing, but I do have useful information. Think about it. The Watchers' Council and all the rare – in many cases one of a kind – tomes that it had access to are now gone. The vast majority of Watchers are gone as well. That means that those few Watchers that are left, but those few of us have read at least some of those rare and unique tomes, and know all or most of what we've read virtually by heart. And I'm the only Watcher you're ever likely to get your hands on who would for any reason – in this case to save my own life – give you some of that information.” Even as he almost lectured at the cult leader, Wesley was looking all over his surroundings, trying to figure out some way out of his predicament. Jacinta was not looking any more convinced as he continued to filibuster her order to kill him, and without any weapons, all he had was hand-to-hand combat and his third-rate fireball spells to work with – and likely violations of the First Law as well.

The high-ranking member of the cult who had lead his immediate captors to this area was unarmed, and from the way he was virtually prostrated before Jacinta Drake, Wesley doubted the man had the force of will required to be a magic user of any real talent. That left Jacinta, who he knew could use at least some magic – and no doubt better than he ever could – and the four men armed with AK-47s. If he used his own limited magic on any of them, he risked violating the First Law. He might be able to get around it with Jacinta if she used dark magic against him first, but that was a risky proposition at best to allow. And since they'd soulgaze him, he couldn't just lie either.

_Then again, there's no reason for the White Council, stretched thin as it is, to hear about this at all, and I'd rather break the First Law now and risk execution later than die because I stuck to futile principle._

As Wesley finished talking, he knew full well it had been a lost cause. Jacinta shook her head and grinned cruelly. “An admirable attempt, perhaps, to save your own worthless infidel hide, but futile. Kill him.” Wesley heard the cock of the AK-47 behind him and responded immediately. Chanting, a fireball formed in his left hand as he spun around, hitting the barrel of the gun held by the man behind him with his right. It still fired, the man's finger having already started squeezing the trigger, but rather than hitting Wesley in the back as had been the intent, the bullets spewed out into nowhere. _Not lucky enough for them to hit another cultist,_ Wesley mused. As he deflected the gun, and the other started to raise their own weapons, the fireball flew from Wesley's hand and hit a second cultists full in the chest, sending him flying backwards, dropping his gun as he did so. Wesley dove and rolled for it, avoiding the short bursts from the other two cultists, as the first one hurriedly reloaded. 

_Now..._ this _is a turkey shoot._ Without even getting back up from a crouching position, Wesley sprayed randomly into the other three, not killing any of them yet, unfortunately, but hitting them enough to throw off the aim of the first and stop the other two from managing to reload quickly. Which was something Wesley didn't bother to waste his time doing. _In for a penny..._ He threw another fireball at one of the cultists, this on not just throwing him back, but actually immolating him, the aim having been better. In seconds the fire had covered his body and in his scream-filled flailing, he brushed against another cultist, who dropped his weapon so he could attempt to beat out the flames, dropping to the ground and rolling.

That left one. Wesley lunged at the man, getting another bullet buried in his left upper arm for his trouble, but knocking the man to the ground. He wrenched the gun from the man's hands and fired directly at the witch. Whatever that ritual was supposed to do, disrupting it seemed a good idea. 

Amy was more than able to deflect the incoming bullets. Sensing their approach, she turned her head and raised an hand, bringing up a shield that easily protected her form any injury.

But it was just enough distraction, a diversion of focus to force Amy to lose her grip on the ritual. The backlash sent her flying back, as the lighthouse began to shake.


	19. Know When to Fold Them

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Not mine at all.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 19: Know When to Fold Them.

**Isle of Demonreach  
12:39**

The first thing that crossed Amy's mind when the threads of the spell snapped was _fucking hell._ Not only had all her work been wasted with the interruption of the spell, but it had been interrupted at absolutely the worst time it could be. The spell had been interrupted as it reached its crescendo and the magic had thinned the barriers between the worlds.

Azhelmenek of Makhash was now free to enter this world, and roam the island. Amy Madison rose to her feet and backed away from the lighthouse quickly. The structure itself began to buck, and move and even...fall apart. Huge portions of the top of the structure began to slip off, cracking and crumbling, whole pieces sliding into the lake. The island itself continued to shake, and the ground began to groan and crack and rumble. In the floor of the lighthouse, a large crack began to form, beneath the bound Sidhe child. It grew wider, and wider. Amy didn't stay to watch, turning to run.

Wesley watched as Jacinta spun around to face the witch momentarily forgotten as the cult leader saw all her plans collapse to ruin all around her. Her expression exploded in fury, and dark energy formed in her hands, apparently preparing to go to battle with the witch.

“You ruined the spell! How dare you?! How dare you destroy my plans?! You and your master Diocletian will pay for this treachery!” Oh. Wesley mused. _This witch works for Diocletian? Interesting..._ “DIE!”Jacinta threw the magic at the witch, who responded by raising her hand cooly and tossing the offending spells aside with a simple flick of her wrist.

Dresden had mentioned Diocletian to Wesley, his arrival in Chicago, and his recent attack. It was a problem that Wesley fully intended to help Dresden deal with as soon as Diocletian showed up. Oracle Securities was doing what they could to find the man, but he had completely dropped off the grid. Searching for a wizard who didn't want to be found in a city the size of Chicago when you had just this side of nothing to work with was like looking for a needle in a pinstack. Unproductive and potentially harmful. 

Of course, getting any information out of a woman with such obvious power would be impossible for himself or his team to pull off. Catching her would be unfeasible. And despite himself, despite the fact the island was still rumbling and cracking and the lighthouse was still falling apart, Wesley was rooted to the spot, wanting to watch this mysterious witch completely destroy Jacinta Drake.

The witch chuckled. “You really think you have the power to defeat me? Honestly. First of all, I did not ruin the ritual. That would be your cronies, for bringing that man,” she gestured to Wesley, “into here, and you for not killing him immediately. Or at least from stopping him shooting at me. But now that you've betrayed the pact you made with Diocletian by attacking me...” the witch laughed. “You have no idea how much I've wanted to do this, and that's in the less the 12 hours of knowing you!” The witch gathered fire in both of her hands and threw it in a single long stream at Jacinta. 

The cult leader wasn't willing to go down that easily. Dropping and rolling to the left, Jacinta drew a knife from her robes and threw it at her opponent. To no avail, however. The witch's hand snapped down and caught the knife. Flipping in in her hand once, Amy threw it back towards its owner's throat. Again Jacinta managed to evade certain death, twisting and dodging the best she could. The knife embedded in her left arm instead. Jacinta cried out in pain, ripping knife from her hand.

“Do you really think that you can defeat me?!” Jacinta demanded. “I have an army at my disposal!” She turned, running towards the tree cover, when the lighthouse finally cracked completely. The vast majority of it had fallen into the lake, and now the ground itself was at least twenty feet wide. A massive red, clawed hand came out of the crack. Wesley couldn't help but gape. It was easily twice times the size of the average human, and it was just one hand. Another reached out, both grabbing the earth, the claws sinking into the ground as it found purchase. All three of them watched in a mixture of fascination, fear, horror and awe at what was coming. 

For years Jacinta had dreamed of this moment, when she could call upon the mighty power of Azhelmenek of Makhash, Lord of the Thousand Hosts and Master of the Dark Scourge. To use his mighty powers to reclaim her father's cult for herself, wresting it from the grasp of her undeserving brother. Since childhood, she had worshiped Azhelmenek of Makhash...and now here he was, unbound, entering the mortal realm for the first time in thousands and thousands of years. The Lord of the Thousand Hosts was not an old one – he was not that old – but he was from the era following them.   
The Master of the Dark Scourge could roam the world, and now Jacinta felt terror. Her worship of him, his power, was true...but Azhelmenek of Makhash did not care for such things. He was an engine of destruction, of everything and everyone.

The claws dug into the ground deeper as their owner pressed down, pulling himself up, out of the crack. A massive head, in proportion to the rest of his body, was visible, then shoulders, and a torso. Azhelmenek wore nothing, his red skin stretched tight over powerful muscles. With a powerful shove, he pulled himself out of the crack, standing easily thirty feet tall. A monstrous scream of glorious rage ripped from his throat, throwing his head back and roaring something in some kind of demonic language.

“Now look what you've done!” The witch told Jacinta. “Fuck this. I'm out of here!” She ran way, towards the tree line. Wesley took the opportunity do the same. 

Jacinta, on the other hand, refused to do anything. Well, refused would be language that implied intent. Rather, she was completely overwhelmed, sensory overload rendering her completely sunned, insensible. She stood, rooted to the ground. Her mind a blank field, her lips moving as she murmured prayer after prayer. _I need to keep him at bay, you can't run from, you can't run from him, you can't run...I am his loyal follower...he will not harm me._

Azhelmenek laughed, the voice booming across the island. “Free! I'm hungry!” One claw swooped down, closing around Jacinta, scooping up her and at least half a ton of dirt along with her. Still too lost in herself, Jacinta didn't even mage to scream as Azhelmenek opened his mouth and tossed her into it. The cult leader fell down maw, his throat. He snapped his mouth shut and chewed. Then he roared once more.

**Isle of Demonreach  
12:43 am**

Mark, David and Abigail had stayed close, fearing despite themselves as the island shook and rumbled and cracked. And then it got worse. As the island opened, rotting, bony hands reached out. Surrounding them in a matter of minutes was an army of undead demons. Just standing there as the island began to settle down. 

“Okay...” Mark said slowly after a moment, leveling his shotgun. “So...how long are we going to wait for this to go somewhere...or are we all going to just all stand here in a stand off?”

“I don't think they're going to be in a position to answer,” Abigail said slowly. “They seem a little dead.”

“We fight vampires and demons on a regular basis. The dead talking is hardly unbelievable.” David commented in reply. 

Before Mark or Abigail could reply to that, a roar ripped across the island. Mark recoiled, dropping his gun, the sound more than a Sound, magical power, dark forces. The former marine grabbed the sides of his head, explosions going off inside it.

Abigail and David had it even worse. The black-haired kinetomancer screamed in pain as she held her hands over her ears. The power of Azhelmenek's roar broke through every set of defenses Abigail St. Pierre had. Blood oozed from her nose, the stresses building up within her. She collapsed to the ground, a crumpled heap, convulsing in horrifying spasms and screaming more.

David fared no batter than his friend. Trickles of blood fell from his left ear, control over his arms so jerky he couldn't even cover his own ears. He didn't scream, but he got even more blood flowing from his nose. And he too fell to the ground, convulsing.

The undead chose this moment, of all moments, to attack, charging towards them. Only Mark, lacking a magical center to attack, was remotely able to respond coherently. Dropping to the ground, head still pounding, he grabbed the shotgun and fired as quickly as he can, though to little overall effect. Each of the walking corpses he hit fell, but there were more coming. Always more. 

“Fucking goddamned hell!” Mark yelled without realizing his volume. He pulled his pistol and fired, but these bullets just weren't cutting it with them. And finally, despite their slow pace, they drew in, preparing to attack the prone casters when the distinctive sound of AK-47s shooting reached Mark's ears. Hundreds, thousands of bullets embedded themselves into the zombies, more whizzing past and over them. Mark dropped to the ground as the cultists attacked. Orders were backed in a demonic language and more manes and more of those misshapen ax-weilding demons charged – or waddled quickly, in the case of the bloated, pus oozing manes – at the undead. Battle was joined in moments, the three humans momentarily forgotten. Mark crawled over to them. The bleeding and screaming and convulsing had sopped, but their faces were, in places, covered in their own blood. “David, Abigail. We've gotta move.” His words were only met by whimpers of pain. Hissing, Mark slapped them both lightly. “I won't say I understand what the hell just happened to you, but we can't stay here, so suck it up.” Mark looked up at the battle raging nearby. “I think the living demons are beating the dead ones, and I'm nearly out of fucking bullets.” He grabbed one of their arms each and stood up, pulling them up with him, to their feet. They swayed and staggered, but managed to stay upright. Still holding the arms, Mark started to run towards the beach, half-dragging the two after him.

**Isle of Demonreach  
12:45 am**

Wesley, like the others with any magical ability, had suffered a blow to his psyche from the demon lord's roar. He'd managed to just collapse to his knees, rather than entirely to the floor, but the blood oozing from his ears was not any less than what Abigail and David suffered. 

Amy, on the other hand, had more than enough magical power to endure it far better. It had been difficult, and painful, but she hadn't fallen, she hadn't bled. Still, her magical center, the very core of her being had been assaulted. Taking a slow, shuddering deep breath, she paused. All around her she could hear the sound of gunfire, screams, screeches and battle. She could feel the death that was beginning to cover the island. She had the magical power to force her way to the shore, and off the island, but if she used too much magic she'd draw Azhelmenek's attention, and opening a Nevernever portal would risk allow the Master of the Dark Scourge to get off the island, or stay on it for longer than daybreak. The moment the sun rose, he'd be back in his cage, but...

Amy had no illusions, unlike Diocletian, that she was somehow a misunderstood crusader for some twisted sense of justice. She was in it for herself – for power, for revenge against that stupid bitch Willow. Three fucking years as a rat. She was, by the definitions of all those stupid, moralizing hypocrites who saw the world in terms of good and evil, rather than that of power, evil. But even she didn't want to see a thirty-foot nearly invincible demon roaming the streets of Chicago.

Up ahead, she saw that bastard who had shot at her. It was that stupid Watcher she'd heard about. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. The head of Oracle Securities. However, he was perfect for what she needed.

“I should kill you for ruining that ritual.” Amy said standing behind him. “But, if we're both going to get off this island alive,” She lashed out and punched him on the back of the head, sending him sprawling. “I'll need you alive, for the moment. Consider that a down payment. Now get your ass of the ground, Wyndam-Pryce.”

Wesley groaned, rolling over onto his back. “I'm afraid you have me at a bit of disadvantage. What should I call you?” 

“I'm not telling you my name. How stupid do you think I am?” The witch demanded, as Wesley slowly, carefully, picked himself off the ground. His mind was still reeling, but years of experience in L.A. - including having his throat cut – had given him a rather remarkable elasticity, in the short run. 

“I didn't ask for your name. I asked for something to call you. It could be Bob for all I care.” Wesley replied, snapping his wrist, then realizing he didn't have his collapsible sword anymore. He'd need to get another one from Baldwin. 

“Call me Amy.” She replied. “Now, let's move. Do you have any way off the island? The Nevernever isn't an option with Big Red walking free.”

“My boat was blown up by your benefactor.”

“Jacinta is was a prissy bitch who got what was coming to her. If Diocletian hadn't ordered me to, I wouldn't have come to this fucking hellhole.”

“Regardless, we have no way off the island. One of my compatriots, assuming they lived long enough, has hopefully called for back up.” Wesley had no illusions about being able to kill this Amy, at least not with what little he had at his disposal and since she wasn't making any moves to kill him, he wouldn't even try. “So going down the the beach facing Chicago is out best bet.”

**Isle of Demonreach  
12:51 am**

Finally, Mark and the others arrived at the beach. The opposing forces had mostly been too distracted by eachother to get in their way, but Mark had had to expend the last of his bullets, and get into a straight up fist-fight with a still-armed Cultists, grabbing the man's AK-47 after knocking him out. When they got to the beach, he saw Wesley, and another woman, waiting there. She was short, wearing form-fitting black clothes, and her hair was long and black as well. 

“Wes!” Mark called, as they reached them. “Who the hell is this?”

Wesley turned. He sighed in relief as he saw them. Then, “This is Amy. Diocletian's apprentice.”

“And you're not killing her why?” Abigail demanded.

“I'd like to see you try, minor league.” Amy shot back. “I have more power in my pinky finger than you do in your entire body. Only reason you lot aren't dead right now is because you've got a ride coming and using the Nevernever to just get the hell out of here isn't an option as long as-” They heard another roar, though fortunately not one so laced with power. “That guy is still here, which will be until sunrise. I don't fancy joining Jacinta Drake in his stomach.”

“What the hell are you-” 

Wesley answered Mark's unfinished question. “Giant demon. It ate Jacinta. And yes, we'll be taking her with us.”

They stood for another few minutes, then they saw a mass of undead rushing at them. Obviously, the larger battle had been decided. In the favor of Azhelmenek and his undead. In fact, coming in behind, standing tall above the trees, they saw him. He looked towards them and actually smiled, teeth showing. It said something in a demonic language – one Wesley, unfortunately, couldn't follow.

“Your ride had better get here, or we're all dead.” Amy muttered. As if spurred on by her words, they heard an engine roaring behind them. But the undead were getting closer.

“Mark?”

“Yea?”

“You wouldn't happen to have any grenades left would you?”

“Just one.” Mark pulled the pin and threw it, as the large boat pulled in close. It went off, scattering the center of the undead, and still they came. With seconds to spare, the five prepared to fight for the minute it would take for the boat to pull in, but then, more grenades flew, fire exploding across the army. Wesley looked back and saw Petrovich and several others with Grenade launchers. 

Finally, they were off, no more injured than they'd been ten or so minutes ago. Which was no an insubstantial amount. As the boat sped away from the island, Azhelmenek screeched in anger, beating his chest, ancient magics preventing him from leaving, to pursue his prey.

**Wolfram and Hart  
9:53 am**

Richard Carlise stepped into Lilah's office, unable to contain his eagerness. He'd received word – the entire event on the Isle of Demonreach had gone completely south. Denna would have to receive the blame. Lilah was sitting at her desk, eating some kind of stir-fry with chopsticks.

“You called me here?” Richard asked rhetorically. He knew why. She was going to tell him that Denna's failure was more than the firm could handle.

“Do you often betray the firm, Richard?” Lilah asked, not looking up from her meal. 

“What the hell are you-” Richard was so busy protesting, his mind racing, desperate to cover his ass, that he didn't notice the large demon stepping in behind him. It grabbed his arms and locked them in place, holding him there.

“Don't play dumb.” Lilah said. “I've got no problem with working against the firm's interest for career gain. Its standard practice. Undercutting your rivals, advancing your own position. Been there done that.” She looked up, waving her hand dismissively. “But you got caught.” And Wesley nearly got killed. “See...Denna's secretary never really changed loyalties. And if there's one thing Wolfram and Hart can't stand, its sloppiness. You didn't cover your tracks well either.” She pressed a button on her phone, as Richard struggled. “He's all yours, Gregory.”

**Next Time on New City, Same Enemy:** _The Cultists are defeated, and Wesley and the Command Team are back in Chicago. But Diocletian still roams freely and alive, Gregory still plots and schemes for revenge, and the Red Court is preparing to finally make its move on Harry Dresden. And oh yea, Knock, Knock Wesley. Its an old 'friend' at the door._


	20. Knock, Knock

**Disclaimer:** I don't own it. Sorry

**Author's Note:** I have a question for my readers. New City, Same Enemy has necessitated the creation of a number of original characters. Of all of them, which do you like the most? Include his name in a review. Whoever wins will get some additional screen time over the next few chapters.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 20: Knock, Knock

**Diocletian's Hideout  
11:31 am**

“Ah, Amy Madison.” Diocletian said cooly, as his apprentice finally entered the warehouse that was his home in Chicago. “It is about time that you got back here, isn't it? Given that the Oracle Securities' boat that you used to get off of Demonreach arrived in port eleven hours ago. Where have you been?”

“I don't think its really your business, Diocletian.” Amy said. “I'm here now, and since you never order me around before noon anyway, it doesn't really matter. What are you, my mother?” Amy knew she was playing with fire by refusing to answer Diocletian's question, but there was the principle involved. She was, in every meaningful way, Diocletian's slave, something that she hated immensely. When she had given him her true name, she knew she was surrendering power, autonomy to him, but she didn't really realize what that mean, in practice. She hadn't realized just how much control she would be giving him. And so, every chance she got, she resisted him, his orders. “It was a personal matter, and irrelevant to my apprenticeship to you.”

“I think I will be the judge of the relevance of whatever you're trying to hide from me. The very fact that you're hiding it tells me that I should no it.”

“There's nothing sinister about it, Diocletian. Its just nothing to do with you.” Amy replied. And that, unfortunately, was true. She would've loved to be doing something sinister, something that involved plotting against Diocletian, but the only person that posed any real threat to her master to was Harry Dresden, and he was a Warden. The last thing she needed was to get anywhere near a Warden of the White Council, even one with a reputation as...colorful, as the one that Dresden had. If she though Oracle Securities had even a chance of killing Diocletian, she'd have considered selling him out to them, given their affiliation with Dresden and the White Council, thanks to Marcone's generally friendly attitude to that organization.

“Tell me, Amy Madison. What were doing?” He infused his words with power, magic, and Amy tensed, as the magic ran through her as he used her true name.

“I was with a Black Court Vampire, known by the name Gregory of Arles.” She said, hoping he wouldn't ask more. The more wasn't his business, after all. 

It wasn't enough for him, “What were you doing with my old _friend_ , Gregory?” Of course, in actuality, Diocletian and the Black Courtier were only friends in the sense that cats and dogs were friends. “Look in my eyes.” She looked into his eyes, and he didn't soulgaze her, but rather just entered her mind, adding yet another violation of the laws of magic to his impressively long roster of similar such sins.

_So...she and Gregory are sleeping together. I admit, I never took Amy to be a necrophiliac. I thought that was only the Slayer...what was her name? Bunny Sumter? Something like that, anyway._ He shrugged. Sooner or later he'd have to put a stop to that, but not necessarily right now. His apprentice sleeping with an old enemy was not the best of ideas, and if Gregory ever decided to turn her, well, then he'd lose control of her, because she'd have changed so much he'd need her true name all over again.

Not something he was planning on happening. “Well, you need to understand, Amy, that nothing is not my business. Information of all types is my affair, and there is no information you will ever have the right to keep from me. So, that brings us to an entirely different topic of discussion.” He paused, “Namely, your betrayal.”

“What the hell are you talking about.” Sure, the idea of betraying Diocletian was one she harbored hops for, but then, he already knew that. She hadn't made any acts to act on those impulses yet, mostly because she couldn't find a way to make them work.”I haven't betrayed you at all.” _Yet._

“You came back from Demonreach on an Oracle Securities Boat, and Jacinta Drake is dead. What do you expect me to think, Amy Madison? Explain to me how working with the enemy and in contravention to my orders isn't betrayal.”

“I had no Choice! Azhelmenek was loose and the Oracle Securities boat was the only viable way to get off the island without taking the Master of the Dark Scourge with me. And he killed Jacinta, I didn't kill her.

“So, rather than a traitor, you're incompetent spellcaster.” Diocletian replied cooly. “You know, you're not making a very good case for keeping you alive. I've less patience with incompetence than I do with betrayal.”

“I'm not incompetent!” Amy snapped at her 'master'. “I've proven my skill with magic on your behalf numerous times in the last year.”

“You failed in the ritual, even after I gave you careful step-by-step instructions!” Diocletian countered. “What else could that be but incompetence?” He almost spat that last word.

“The ritual didn't fail because of anything of my doing. I was interrupted and distracted. You know how fragile the threads of the ritual are.”

“You were distracted _by what!?_ ”

“By the monumentally staggering stupidity of Jacinta Drake!” 

“She's a idiot of then highest order, I agree I'm afraid I'm going to need more elaboration that that.” Diocletian said harshly.

“She let the Watcher, Wyndam-Pryce into her presence and then let him live, rather than instantly killing him! I wasn't watching, so I have no idea why. Then, somehow, he managed to get a hold of the firearm of one of Jacinta's men and shot it at me. I deflected the bullet with ease, but the act of doing so took just enough of my focus, my control, away from the spell for just long enough to let it slip out of my grasp. If the bullet had hit me, the same effect would've occurred.” She took a breath, “Drake decided that rather than blaming her own idiocy, she was going to blame me, and tried to kill me. Fortunately, she failed miserably, and Azhelmenek decided that she would make a tasty meal. I did the only thing that was left available to me and hitched a ride with Oracle Securities. I highly doubt dying needlessly there would've served you any.” She finished. Then a thought occurred to her, and she smirked, though she knew she was going to pay for this. “And, while we're on the subject of incompetence and related character flaws, let's talk about your cowardice. Your inability to attack Harry Dresden again speaks volumes about the fact that you're terrified of him. Terrified of his power. You are a spineless, weak, coward Diocletian.”

The old man laughed sadistically. “Insolence, Amy, will not get you anywhere. Or at least, not anywhere you want to be.” He thrust out a hand and barked several words in Latin. His eyes glowed, and Amy threw her head back, a scream ripping from her throat as she felt pain she never would've been able to imagine before meeting Diocletian. Diocletian laughed with almost childlike glee at her scream. “Do it again!” He cast the spell once more, and Amy screamed again, every nerve ending in her body feeling like it had been set aflame.

_I'll kill him for this. I promise you Diocletian. One way or another I'm going to make you pay for everything. I'll rip your soul from your body, steal your secrets and destroy whatever is left of you. You will pay, you will die, and then I'll kill that bitch Willow._

**Wesley's Apartment  
10:15 pm; May 25th, 2003**

Wesley opened the door to his apartment, fighting the urge to yawn, and collapse on his couch and fall asleep immediately. The month and change since the Battle on Demonreach had been nothing but minor crisis after minor crisis. The disaster at Demonreach had convinced Lilah that Wolfram and Hart Chicago needed to step on the gas, to pull out all – well, nearly all – the stops. They'd stepped up their activities across the board, not just in Chicago but throughout northwestern Indiana and northeastern Illinois. More cases, more witness intimidation, more attempts to take control of crime both mortal and supernatural, more of everything, falling only just barely short of open warfare with 'Baron' Marcone. It was running Oracle Securities ragged. And unfortunately, while they worked with Harry Dresden as much as they could, the times they were able to pool their resources was growing uncomfortably small.

Diocletian was half the problem. He'd spread the word across the supernatural underworld that whoever brought him the head of Harry Blackstone Dresden would get secrets untold as reward, power enough to perform all kinds of dark feats...that promise has brought a steady stream of demons, warlocks, demonic cultists and would-be-powers from across the spectrum to Dresden's doorstep. So far, none of them were really powerful enough to stop Harry, and two green Wardens had been assigned to Chicago and its environs to take advantage of the training opportunity posed by so many weak warlocks drawn by the promise of power. Between them, the two were managing to cull the herd, and Dresden was serving almost as a magnet for the low-level warlocks and demon cultists that proved the most common thing the Wardens dealt with, before the Red Court War.

To make things even worse though, a group of 'rogue' Red Court Vampires had decided that they were going to add themselves to the mix of the supernatural stew that was Chicago.

Led by one Baron Fernando Zaragoza, these Red Courtiers claimed that the peace treaty the Red King had signed between the White Council and the Red Court did not serve the interests of the race of Red Court Vampires, and that the Red King didn't have the authority to control them anyway. Moreover since the interests of their race were no longer being served by their king, the were taking matters into their own hands, and personally targeting the wizards of the White Council. And for whatever reason, Harry Dresden was going to be first on the list. 

Wesley highly doubted – as did just about everyone from the Senior Council on down to the lowest-level observer of supernatural politics – that Baron Zaragoza was acting entirely on his own, without any prompting whatsoever from the Red King or someone close to him. It was an obvious attempt to continue the war without continuing the war, and end-run the Accords. And thanks to the highly legalistic and literal nature of the document, it was working very well.

And to make matters even worse, for every Red Courtier that Dresden or Oracle Securities took down, the vampires captured and turned another innocent to replenish their numbers. The problem was, they didn't seem to be feeding off of people in the area, so where exactly they were getting their food supply – unlike Black Court vampires, who could feed on animal blood, even if they hated the taste – vampires of the Red Court couldn't feed on the blood of animals at all. Only human blood could do it for them, under no circumstances would anything else do.

In fact, the huge influx of demons, warlocks, demon cultists and the like into Chicago was destabilizing the extremely fragile supernatural 'ecosystem' – as it were – of the city and its environs, and this had manifested itself in a rash of unsolved murders and disappearances that had police across the region baffled.

Marcone was, predictably, not pleased by the way events were going, and frankly, neither was Wesley. But he knew that if they could eliminate the threat posed by Diocletian and by the Red Court, things would start to stabilize. Wolfram and Hart was posturing and finding its place in the context of the Windy City. It was, essentially, attempting to mark its territory. Once it was fully settled in to Chicago, he suspected they'd be less overly aggressive, as even in L.A. they weren't usually this bad. The Senior Partners liked stability, overall, or they'd have marching on Earth with their armies.

Wesley sat down on his couch, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He turned on the television, which was already tuned to news. Unsurprisingly, the story that was dominating the news was still the collapse of Sunnydale into a sinkhole five days earlier.

Wesley knew the cause had to be something supernatural. And the word out there was not only that Sunnydale the city had collapse into the sinkhole, but that the Hellmouth was entirely gone as well. Something had destroyed one of the greatest magnets for evil in the world, and one of the greatest threats to the survival of humanity, and the planet.

Despite himself, Wesley felt a bit of impersonal gratitude towards Buffy – it had to be her, since only she could achieve something so beneficial and destructive at the same time. It was almost a hallmark of Miss Summers and the way she did things. He wouldn't tell the girl under any circumstances, but...for once, she'd actually done good work. She'd done good for mankind, for the world.

“...experts are still at a loss to explain what happened in to Sunnydale. President Bush has called on Congress to create a relief fund for the survivors of Sunnydale, and the creation of a Federal Commission to examine what exactly happened.” 

Wesley pressed the mute button. “So the United States Federal Government can come up with an workable cover story, you mean.” He muttered at the television. He was about to unmute it when he heard a knock on his door. Wesley stood, the familiar weight of his collapsible sword still around his wrist. He made a habit to never open his door unarmed. If it was someone from Oracle Securities, they'd call him. These days, the only person who actually visited him at his home was Lilah. Greeting her unarmed was not conducive to long term health.

He walked over to the door and opened it, fully expecting Lilah. “Hello-” 

It wasn't Lilah. “Faith...” Of all the people he expected to knock on his door, the 'dark slayer' was not one of them. She looked little different than she did than when she had tortured him. Less psychotic, perhaps, and a little gaunter, like she'd been through hell and back – which given that something big had obviously happened in Sunnydale, might well be true. But the first thing he saw when he saw her was not her...but the young woman slicing into him with shards of broken glass.

“Hey Wes-” Wesley cut her off with a flick of his wrist, the collapsible sword extending towards her. Unsurprisingly, Faith managed to dodge back, avoiding the attack. “What the hell Wes?”

“Give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you.” Wesley said cooly.

“Wes, I'm a Slayer.” Faith said. “If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead...” Her voice trailed off a little as she saw the gun that Wesley had leveled in her face. “Okay, what the fuck are you doing, Wes? We're on the same side!”

“I wasn't aware that I had joined the side of evil, Faith. And last time I checked, tying someone to a chair and torturing them wasn't exactly indicative of being on their side. You're wanted fugitive, Faith.”

“I only broke out of prison because Angel and Buffy needed my help. They asked, and I came.”

“I find it hard to believe that Buffy would ask you for help at any point.” He replied coldly.

Faith inclined her head at that. “True. Fine. It was Angel who asked for my help. Look...Wes...I came to apologize. For what little that's worth. I want to...” Her voice trailed off a moment. “I screwed up. Big time. I want to make up for everything I did. Maybe I'll never be able to do that, but I'm going to do my best.”

“Your apology is noted and irrelevant.” Then a thought occurred to him. “But since you're here in Chicago anyway, perhaps you can be of use. We have a bit of a vampire problem, here. You a vampire slayer.” He lowered his gun. “Perhaps we can...work together, for the moment.” He holstered his firearm again. He stepped aside, lifting his arm up to retract the sword. He still didn't trust her, but he knew she'd be useful. Once she was inside, he closed the door and walked over to the small kitchen. He pointed to the far end of the living room. He could see her across the half-wall counter that divided the living room from the kitchen. But it kept her far enough away they he should have enough time to draw his gun and produce his sword, should she end up attacking him. “Over there. Let's keep some distance between us, shall we?”

“Alright Wes. So, Vampire problem.” She said, popping her neck.

“What exactly happened in Sunnydale?” He started. “All I know is what they say on the news. And the fact that the Hellmouth is apparently gone. How did you manage that?”

“I didn't do it. Spike did. He wore some crazy magical amulet. Collapsed the Hellmouth, gave his life to kill an army of Turok-Han.”

“Turok-Han?” Wesley laughed. “Those are a myth.”

“I fought them, Wes. I saw people get killed by them. So don't go telling me that they aren't real.” The intensity in her voice carried an undertone of dangerous anger. 

“Alright. Go on.”

“That's about it. Some incorporeal ass called 'The First Evil' had an army of the things. Wanted to bring them out of the Hellmouth. So Buffy, I and the rest of the Slayers went in and killed them long enough for Spike to...I don't know...channel the sun or something, through the amulet.”

Wesley held up a hand. “Wait, wait, Spike? As in William the Bloody? Murderer of two Slayers?”

“He went and got himself a soul. Slept with Buffy too.”

“Didn't someone ever tell her that the object of the game was to kill them, not fuck them?”

“To be honest, I'm not sure.” Faith replied. 

“And...you said slayers, earlier? As in other than you and Buffy?”

“Yea.” Faith said with a shrug. “There's more than two of us now. Whole bunch. Red used some magical 'Slayer Scythe' that Buffy found and activated every potential.”

Wesley coughed loudly, nearly choking on nothing for a moment. “Every potential?”

“Yea.” Faith said. “I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around it to. So what have you been doing here in Chicago? Angel didn't go heavy in on the details about what happened between you two.”

“Its a long story I'd rather not share. I'm here working for Johnny Marcone.” 

Faith recognized that name. “You're working for the mob? And you get on me about being a wanted fugitive?!” 

“In the supernatural world, Marcone is an established power. I came here to oppose Wolfram and Hart. Marcone didn't like them moving into his city. I don't do anything more illegal than Angel or Buffy do in their fight. I just have more resources to work with.”

“What do you mean, 'Established power'?” Faith demanded.

“He's a signatory of the Unseelie Accords.”

“The what?”

“The closest analogy is the Geneva of the supernatural world, though they deal with a lot more than prisoners. The White Council of Wizards, the Red and White Courts of Vampires, the Summer and Winter Courts of Faerie, Wolfram and Hart, Marcone...if you're a major player in the Supernatural world, you sign it. Only exception is...was...the Watcher's Council.”

“Why?”

“It sets constraints on war-making, placing it in certain context. The Council was...uninterested in limiting itself in the fight against vampires of all three Courts.”

“What's this about Courts?”

“Oh, didn't you know?” He smirked. Of course she wouldn't know. “There are three different species of vampire.”

**Next Time on New City, Same Enemy:** _With Faith alongside them, Oracle Securities makes yet another incursion into Undertown to find the Red Courtiers, while on the surface, Diocletian finally makes his next move against Harry Dresden. And why is Lindsey headed off to the sinkhole that was once called Sunnydale?_


	21. Going Hunting

**Disclaimer:** It is not mine. I will somehow deal.

**Author's Note:** I could apologize profusely for the delay, or I could just say: On with the fic!

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 21: Going Hunting

**Wesley's Apartment  
10:15 pm; May 25th, 2003**

“Wait, three _species_ of vampire? Okay, start explaining.” Faith demanded. 

“I don't take orders from you, Faith. I never did and I never will. I suggest you keep that in mind.” He said cooly, keeping the gun trained on her as he continued to talk. “The three kinds of vampire are Black Court Vampires, White Court Vampires, and Red Court Vampires. The one's that you are familiar with are the Black Court Vampires – dead body animated by a demon. It's the only species the Council ever tells Slayers about, as a general rule.”

“Sounds typical of those fuckers. Why?”

“Relevance. The White and Red Courts are not ones the Slayer goes up against. They're far more organized, and they're usually found in larger numbers, and compared to the Black Court, on a vampire-by-vampire basis, they kill significantly less humans. They're completely evil, yes, but not the same type of threat as the Black Court.” He shrugged. “The Vampires of the White Court aren't made, but born. As long as one parent is a White Court Vampire, then the child is. They don't feed on blood either, but emotions – specifically, lust, despair, fear, wrath, things like that. And have the ability to induce those feelings for the purpose of feeding. And in the process, they eat away at the soul and psyche of whoever they feed on, and usually creating a sick dependency. You kill them just like you would a human, just takes more to do it.”

“The Red Court – they're some kind of demon that spreads through infection.” He continued. Their natural form is something like a cross between a mane and a bat. They can wear a flesh mask to make themselves look human. Stakes work, but they can be killed through more conventional means as well, though it takes a whole lot more, and they are particularly vulnerable to sunlight and fire and holy artifacts. They feed on blood, but as a general rule they don't kill their meals so much as harvest from them on a regular basis. They need less blood and there is something in their saliva that's addictive, when inserted into the blood stream via biting. They enslave their meals.” He smirked at Faith's expression. “The White and Red Courts are organized like little nations, each with a King, and nobles ruling territory across the world. The White Court is predominately in the United States and Europe. The Red Court likes the Africa, Latin America - places where they can operate without the notice of a strong government.”

“And which of the three are giving you problems?”

“The Red Court. Recently they were at war with the White Council – its basically the government for wizards, witches, et cetera – but a peace was brokered. Some didn't like the idea of peace, and decided to keep fighting. The issue is that they're replacing their losses by infecting more humans. Which is not acceptable. They're here to kill a man named Harry Dresden – he's a powerful wizard who was crucial and preventing the peace talks from being sabotaged by an unknown third party.” Well, something like that. He didn't need to get into the politics about how saving the White Court so the White King could put pressure on the Red Court to come to truce, and so on. More complication than was needed for the purposes of this conversation. “We know they're hiding out somewhere in the tunnels and caverns under the city, but we haven't found them yet. We are going down into the tunnels tomorrow morning.”

Faith looked around and laughed as he said that. “Somehow, I don't think you're about to offer to let me crash here in the meantime.”

“Most certainly not.” Wesley said. He didn't lower the gun, but took out his cell phone and dialed a number. He brought it to his ear. 

“Yes Boss?” The voice of Petrovich came through from the other line. 

“You know that kill on sight order I had on that escaped convict? One Faith Lehane?” He smirked when he saw Faith's expression, but the gun still trained on her kept her from talking – for a few moments, anyway.

“I do.” The mercenary replied. “What about it?”

“I'm rescinding that order.”

“Sir?” Very few people could pack a so much into just that one word.

“No, I'm not under duress. She is actually in my apartment right now, but I've got a gun on her at the moment. If anyone is under threat of getting killed in this situation, its her.”

“Do you want to put that to the test, Wes?” Faith shot back, apparently having found her tongue. 

The watcher lowered the phone from his mouth for a moment. “I'd really rather not.” He said in reply, then brought the phone back up to his mouth. “No. I haven't used the duress word, have I?”

“That's hardly foolproof Sir.” Petrovich replied. 

“No. But its the best you'd get over the phone one way or another. We'll be arriving in about a half an hour. Make sure the guards know not to shoot her when we arrive.” Wesley hung up the phone and looked at Faith.

“You had a _kill on sight_ order on me?” The slayer sounded like she couldn't believe it.

“Of course.” Wesley said in a matter of fact tone. “Look at it from my perspective. You strap me to a chair and torture me after already having killed two people. You go to prison. I find out you've escaped. What would you do? I hardly suspected that I'd be high on your list of people to kill, if that was what you were inclined for, but I wasn't going to take any chances.” He pressed lightly on the trigger, smiling. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Damn Wes,” Faith said, smirking. “You really have gone hardcore.” She laughed. “I wonder what Giles would say if he saw you now?”

“There would be a great deal of nervous cleaning of glasses, some stammering and some throat clearing.” Wesley replied. “And possibly a lecture about what it means to be a watcher.” He released the trigger and holstered the gun. “Well? Shall we leave for Oracle Securities, then?” He headed for the door.

“You'll have to tell me why you named it that.” Faith said, following him out.

“Its a long story.”

**In Front of the Oracle Securities Building  
10:37pm, May 25th, 2003**

“...you tortured the vamp with a slow drip of Holy Water?” Faith asked, as Wesley's car drew to a stop in front of the Oracle Securities building. “What was left of the fucker when you were done?”

“More than you'd expect. He gave up far too easily. Still, he was a gibbering wreck by the time he was done talking.” He opened his door and stepped out, his former Slayer doing the same. She saw the four men at the door, all of who had leveled their guns at her. 

“You do use more than a gun to take out the vamps, right?” Faith said. “And everything else, for that matter?”

Wesley shook his head. “For most things, a gun is plenty. Don't underestimate the power of modern firearms. You put enough lead into most species of demon, they'll be just as dead as a human filled with lead. Only difference is that most demons take more lead to kill than a human.” 

“Still doesn't cover what you do with a Vampire. You don't shoot them to death.” 

“If you shoot a vampire through the kneecaps, it can't walk for a good thirty seconds at least. More than enough time to walk up and stake it and/or decapitate it. You blow a shotgun in a vampire's face, its staying down for more than enough time to be killed in more conventional ways. Then there's phosphorous grenades.”

“Phosphorous grenades?” 

“Fire. Lots of it. Like a Molotov cocktail but better.”

“Damn.” Faith said after a moment. “Could've used that kind of hardware back on the Hellmouth.”

“The Watchers' Council, and extension, the Slayer, has been institutionally incapable of catching up with the times. The Industrial Revolution passed us by centuries ago, and they didn't even notice. Besides, I've noticed that Buffy Summers seems to have a serious problem with guns. Doesn't really seem to be logical, but then, logical thought – or really, thought at all – was never Miss Summer's strong suit.” He waved at the guards as they drew close. “See? No duress. You can tell them to stand down now, Petrovich.”

“You heard the boss.” The Russian man replied. “Stand down, let them through.” The mercenaries lowered their weapons and stepped aside. Petrovich opened the door and let them through. “This is Faith?”

“Indeed.” Wesley replied. “Faith, this is Nikolai Petrovich, second in command of the Oracle Securities Assault Forces. Petrovich, this is Faith Lehane, convicted murderer and Slayer.” He paid no attention to the aggrieved sound Faith made as he brought up her criminal status.”

Petrovich looked her over a moment, then smirked. “So...you re a Slayer. I hear Slayers are very strong, very fast.”

“I could get you on the ground inside of a minute.” Faith replied. Petrovich smirked wider, and Faith chuckled. “So you like that? Don't mind the woman being on top?”

“A woman as sexy as you? Not at all.”

“Oh dear.” Wesley pressed two fingers to his throat and made a fake gagging sound. “Flirt on your own time, Petrovich. I'm not paying you to pick up women.” He entered the building. “Where is Abigail? Should probably warn her.”

“Already did.” Petrovich replied. “She wasn't that happy.”

“Of course not.” Abigail said, walking down the stairs, “Who wouldn't be thrilled at the prospect of sharing a building with a convicted murderer?” 

“Abigail, every single one of us has killed at least one human being in our time as mercenaries.” Petrovich pointed out. “Wesley's killed humans too. Indeed, the only person in this building who hasn't killed a human is you, and that's only because no one wants to piss the Wardens off.”

“Wardens?” Faith interjected. “What the hell are they?”

“How can she be so ignorant?” Abigail demanded of Wesley.

“The Watchers' Council has kept a policy of keeping Slayers ignorant of the greater supernatural world beyond the immediate concerns of wherever they happen to be.” He turned to Faith. “Wardens are the wizard police, at the most basic level. They're about as narrow-minded and judgmental as the Watchers Council but a great deal more effective.”

Abigail looked at Faith, raising an eyebrow as Wesley elaborated. “So...” She said when the Englishman was done. “You're the psycho Slayer.”

“Call me psycho again and I'll tear your arm off and beat you to death with it.” Faith said with deadly seriousness. Abigail laughed.

“I think I'll like you.” She held out a hand. “Abigail St. Pierre.” 

Faith looked confused for a moment, then smirked and accepted the hand, shaking it. “Faith Lehane.” The Slayer gave the other woman a once-over. “I don't see a gun on you. What do you do here?”

“Magic. Kinetomancy, specifically.” At the quizzical look on Faith's face, Abigail explained. “Force magic. Here's a pretty tame example.” She pointed a finger at Wesley, and before her boss could protest, “ _Expello._ ” 

She cast the spell, her voice soft. Wesley flew back a few feet and sprawled on the ground. “Wicked cool.” Faith said with a smile.

“I can do a whole lot more, but I figure Wes wouldn't be happy if I injured him.” She looked worried a moment, as Wesley pulled himself to his feet, grimacing. “You're not hurt, right?”

“Just my pride.” Wesley replied. “Though I would appreciate not being your demonstration subject next time you want to show off what you can do with your powers.”

“You'll get over it, Wes.” Abigail replied. She turned back to Faith. “So...what's it like? Being a Slayer?” 

Wesley sighed, “I'm returning to my apartment. Try to get some sleep.” He told Petrovich. “I'll need it, with her about.” _That amulet she mentioned. If that's what I think it is..._ Well...if it was, Chicago was going to get a great deal more interesting.

**Lilah Morgan's Office, Wolfram and Hart Chicago  
10:41 pm, May 25th, 2003**

“And you're absolutely sure it was Faith Lehane?” Lilah asked into the phone. “No chance that you're mistaken?”

“Definitely not.” The man on the other end replied. “She's pretty distinctive, both in attitude and appearance. It was definitely her that Wyndam-Pryce brought into the Oracle Securities building.”

“Alright. Keep the building under surveillance, as normal. If any other Slayers or their associates show up, call me immediately.”

“Understood, ma'am.” The phone hung up on the other end, and Lilah put hers down as well. 

“Do we do what you did in Los Angeles?” Denna Frost asked, sitting across Lilah's desk from her. “Report her presence to the police?”

Lilah leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “I don't think so. No need to get on the bad side – at least overtly – of whatever new organization the remnants of the Watchers' Council and all these newly energized Slayers make. We don't want them mobilizing against us before we're ready. The damages could be...catastrophic.”

“ _Just_ catastrophic?”

“I'd have to consult the company psychics to make a truly accurate guess.” Lilah replied. “But I suspect that's the highest it would be, in terms of damages. The Firm is just too powerful to be destroyed by even an army of Slayers.”

“But the damage could set the Firm back decades.” Denna pointed out.

“Centuries, even.” Lilah countered. “I don't want to give the Senior Partners any excuse to lay the blame on me if we come to blows with the Slayers.”

“The Most Ancient and Noble Art of Ass Covering?” Denna cocked an eyebrow.

“Of course.” Lilah said frankly. “Its the first thing you learn here at Wolfram and Hart if you intend to succeed. Richard, of course, failed in that lesson. Or at least didn't learn it as well as you did, since he's dead now, and you're...not.”

“What can I say? I used you as my model.” Denna smirked. 

“Flattery, Denna, will get you somewhere between nowhere and everywhere.” 

“I'll keep that _so helpful_ advice in mind.”

**Lindsey McDonald's Office, Oracle Securities Building  
7:29 am, May 26th, 2003**

Wesley walked into Lindsey's office and cleared his throat. The lawyer looked up from the brief he was typing. “Yea?”

“How goes the litigation?” Wesley asked, picking up one of the paperweights on Lindsey's desk and tossing it from hand to hand lightly.

“About as well as can be expected. Wolfram and Hart is winning a hell of a lot more often than I'd like, but then...well, they're Wolfram and Hart.”

“Do you think you could afford to leave the cases in the hands of your department for a week?”

Lindsey cocked his head for a moment, thinking. “Maybe. Depends on what you want me to do in that week?”

“How would you like to take a short vacation to Sunnydale?” Wesley asked, smirking.

“...There _isn't_ a Sunnydale anymore.” Lindsey said, confused. “And I can't imagine what's left of it would make much of a vacation spot anyway.”

“True. Very true.” Wesley conceded. “But there's something I need done down there, something that involves your particular area of expertise.” He reached into his coat and handed a folded piece of paper to Lindsey. “Your orders.”

Lindsey unfolded the paper curiously and then looked up when he was done reading it. “You're sure this is a good idea?”

“Not in the least.” Wesley admitted. “But I think that it is more likely that it will turn out to be a good idea than a bad one.”

“Alright. You want me to go alone, then?”

“No. Take a team with you. Who knows what might be living down there.”

“I'll leave at the end of the day, then.” Lindsey replied.

**Undertown, Chicago  
9:52 am, May 26th, 2003**

“Are you absolutely sure that this is a good idea?” Mark asked Wesley quietly as they led a team through the tunnels of Undertown. 

“We're out of options for dealing with the Red Court apart from this.” Wesley replied just as softly. “Taking the fight to them is what we have left. I'm quite sure we won't be able to kill all of them – not even close, unfortunately – and we're going to be completely outnumbered, but its our best bet.”

“I wasn't talking about that,” Mark said. “Though I have concerns about this plan too. No, what I meant is do you really think that bringing her,” He jerked his head in Faith's direction “along with us?”

“I've not taken leave of my senses, Mark. It might be a momentary lapse in judgment, I'll admit, but she is a Slayer. She's here in Chicago anyway, so we might as well make use of her abilities.”

Mark sighed. “You know her better than I do, I'll give you that. But she _strapped you to a chair and tortured you!_ Forgive me if I'm a bit worried about you!”

Wesley sighed as well, “Look...I appreciate your concern, but we need to deal with these Vampires. Under normal circumstances I'd not be bringing her along. But...these Red Courtiers are sending this entire city to hell in a hand-basket. We need to take them out. The sooner the better. I'm not having more civilians die. We need to go in and take out as many as we can, and particularly the leadership. And we need to separate them from whoever they're using as their food supply. We need to decapitate the Red Court presence here now.”

“They've really gotten to you that much?”

“Yes.” Wesley replied flatly, as the team continued through the tunnel.

“You're just operating on guesswork as to where they are, though.” Mark pointed out.

“True. But its all we have. They have to be stopped.”


	22. The Ball is in the Red Court

**Disclaimer:** Go ahead, sue me. Take a share of the three-hundred some dollars I have to my name. But I don't own Dresden Files or Angel the Series, and I am making no profit.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 22: The Ball is in the Red Court

**Undertown, Chicago  
9:57 am, May 26th, 2003**

“Allow me to make one thing clear, Miss Lehane.” Mark said tersely, as he dropped back in the group to speak to her. “I don't like you.”

“Gee, Mark, you know how to make a girl feel wanted.” Faith said. “Glad you're so honest though. Now, tell me, why should I give a shit?””

“I don't like you.” He repeated, barreling forward as if she hadn't spoken. “I don't like you, I don't trust you, and if I even _think_ that there is a slight possibility that you're even _considering_ doing anything to Wesley, I'll kill you in a heartbeat.”

“A, I'm not going to do anything to Wes. I'm not the person I was three years ago, and even if I was, I have other things to do than hurt Wes. Hell, at this point, I'd much rather fuck him. If he'd been like this when he'd been my Watcher, I don't think I'd have gone evil. Would've been too interested in getting in his pants faster than you could say jail bait.” Then she looked pointedly at the former Marine. “And you may be tough and all, but, Slayer here.” 

“Of course you could. You could beat the crap out of me and probably not break a sweat. A Slayer can outfight any normal human. Issue is...even a Slayer can't outfight a bullet. Especially not one right in the brain.”

“I don't really like death threats.” Faith replied, hand tightening around the hilt of the sword Wesley had loaned her. 

“It wasn't a threat, Miss Lehane. It was a promise, and a warning. You don't make any moves to hurt my boss, or make me think you're going to hurt him, and I'm sure we'll get along just fine.”

“I don't much like promises to kill me either-”

“Shut the fuck up, both of you,” Wesley said from the front of the line. Faith, being herself, was about to make a smart remark back when she felt it. That all too familiar... _sense of wrongness_ , like...there never was any way she'd ever been able to describe it... _maybe I really should look into that 'elocution and expanding my horizons' shit,_ she pondered, laughing it away mentally moments later. But there were demons, or vampires coming. And a lot of them. Well, really, they didn't feel like demons...but they didn't feel like vampires either. Not quite. Close, but no cigar. _Has to be those Red Court Vamps Wes said we're down here to kill._

“Wes...?” She called up front. “There's something coming. A lot of somethings. They don't feel like demons. Or vampires. Not the kind I know, anyway.”

“Has to be Red Court.” Wesley confirmed if for her. He stopped moving, holding up a hand to indicate to the rest to stop as well. They all did. “Looks like we have company. Everyone, get ready.” Faith watched as Wesley and his team got ready with an experienced, smooth, almost mechanical efficiency. Wesley snapped his wrist and the collapsible sword extended from his sleeve, and into his hand. He gave it an almost instinctual test swing in front of him. But he didn't leave his other hand unused either. He pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and, with a practiced ease she still – even with his very visible improvements – had amazing difficulty reconciling with Wesley, even the Wesley-with-a-spine that she'd strapped to a chair and tortured, prepped it one handed, safety off. 

Mark, like the rest of the gun-toting “private security” types that apparently made up the majority of Oracle Securities combat forces overall, and the majority – by far – of this team too. Each of them, at this point, had swords over their backs as well, but the fact that they immediately went for their guns – and seemed a lot more comfortable with them than the swords – suggested they probably were only going to be using them as weapons of last resort. Despite the fairly cramped quarters of the tunnel they were in, each one of them was arming their automatic weapons. Each of them also had shotguns and at least one pistol, bringing perhaps new meaning to the word 'overkill'.

Then again, Abigail had told her last night, when she had asked about Mark Farrel, that the former marine had once told her, apparently quoting someone else “There is no 'overkill'. There is only 'open fire' and 'I need to reload'”. Which, for all its gung-ho absurdity, was a philosophy Faith found herself thinking that she could get completely behind. 

_Speaking of Abigail..._ Instead of Abigail as their magical support, another one of the magic-guys working underneath her, named David Cross. Apparently he was really good with creating fireballs, and just creating and controlling fire in general. Which, against vampires, would be quite useful, she had to admit. Wesley, Mark and Abigail had decided, it seemed, that bringing their leader, and the guy in charger of all their 'soldiers' – as it were – was putting enough eggs inside one basket, that bringing the head of their magical unit wasn't a good idea. Hence David, instead of Abigail.

David, it seemed, was the only person who wasn't getting ready. Even Faith was almost reflexively twirling a stake in her hand, even though she knew that the sword Wes had loaned her was going to be a hell of a lot more useful. Well, at least according to Wes, and he was all she had to go on, as to how to kill these 'Red Court' Vampires.

“Which direction are they coming-” Wesley's question answered itself before he could finish it, as black, rubbery, bat-like monstrosities charged down the tunnel towards them. Faith couldn't get a clear count from her position in the line. “David.” Wesley said tersely, as they drew closer, shrieking wordless, but nonetheless noisy, war-cries.

“Yea?” The pyromancer replied, deceptively calm in his tone – even as he felt panic, a level of panic he hadn't felt on Demonreach, rising within him. Vampires always terrified him more, even than more powerful demons. Though given his experiences growing up on the Cleveland Hellmouth, that was hardly surprising. “What?” Economy of words continued to rule his speech, even – especially – at times like this.

“A wall of fire between our guests and us would be rather nice. They don't seem to be that happy to see us traipsing around their backyards.” _What the hell are you doing, Wes?_ David thought to himself. _Practicing your long-atrophied skill of British understatement?_ Still, David obeyed without hesitation. Demonreach, and the time since, had taught him to respect the Englishman's tactical skills. And to question the man's sanity, but it was hard not to question _that._ The pyromancer flung his hands forward, chanting, and a small wall of fire formed between them and the onrushing vampires. In fact, 'wall' was hardly even close to the right word. It was barely an inch tall!

“What the _hell_ David?” Wesley exclaimed. “That's way too fucking small!” Wesley paused in his admonishment to rapidly empty his pistol into the onrushing Red Courtiers. Not a single one fell, and indeed, they didn't hear any of the characteristic loud, keening screeches Red Court Vampires made when they were suffering any meaningful amount of pain while in their true forms. _Damn,_ Wesley thought angrily. _Worth a fucking try I guess...and every little bit counts, at the end of the day._ He returned back to the thread of 'conversation' with David. “They'll fucking jump right over it. Hell! They'll _walk_ right over it!” As he spoke, Wesley dropped the empty firearm in his left hand, not bothering to reload it.

“That's kind of the point.” David replied calmly, one hand still outstretched towards the “wall of fire”.

“What the- Are you out of your god-damned mind? Are you insane?!” 

“Kind of rich for **you** to be asking **me** that, don't you think, boss?” David shot back. _So much for my usual economy of words._ David thought wryly to himself. “Look!” The vampires were drawing nearer, one leaping ahead of the rest of the pack, leaping towards them directly, leaping towards the wall..leaping – _over_ it!

David pulled his hand backwards so that it was by his ear, and without any other warning, the “wall” rose up with an almost-roar to cover an entire, albeit thin, slice of the tunnel, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. The vampire, caught in a sheet of flame that hadn't been been there just a moment before, began to get toasted virtually instantly. Now they did hear that keening screech they'd been expecting, and the charred, ruined body of the vampire fell out of the 'wall' and rolled a few feet to land nearly at Wesley's feet. It wasn't moving – much – but the former watcher wasn't included to take chances, and he darted forward smoothly, cutting his sword into the creature's barely definable neck, just underneath its equally barely definable head. Thick, gooey ichor spewed a little from the sudden gash, then fell in pace to just flowing out, its speed and consistency reminiscent of molasses.

“David, down!” Wesley barked the order, pointing towards the ground in an entirely unnecessary gesture. The fire-sheet continued to block the path ahead

“What-” David began, but Wesley cut him off. 

“I said down! Do it! Now!” What really sold David on following those orders wasn't so much the urgency or the voice of command in them, but the fact that Wesley too was diving to the ground. David was on the cold stone a second later. “Open fire!” Wesley shouted, his order possessed of much less dignity than it could have been, given his position nearly face down on the ground. The four mercenaries behind them opened fire with their weapons, the air above them crackling as the dozens and dozens of small, imperceptibly fast flew past them, through the fire, and into the massed vampires behind them. Each bullet currently being fired would do even less than the shots he'd fired from his pistol, but there were so many of them. Accuracy didn't matter, with these guns or even individual bullets. Putting enough lead into the air to turn your enemy into pencil, on the other hand...

More keening shrieks, though none with quite the intensity Wesley might hope for. In pain, yes, but the bullets weren't killing any. The hail of bullets slowed, then stopped as the mercenaries ejected empty clips and began to reload quickly. 

“How much longer can you keep that up David?” Wesley asked the other man, noticing the obvious strain on the man's face. 

“Maybe...maybe another minute or two. Under normal circumstances, a lot longer, but if you want me to be even marginally effective in the main fight, I can't give you anything more.”

“Bring it down as soon as they've emptied these clips and reloaded a fresh set.” Wesley ordered, as the four began to fire anew. More screeches, still, though, no sounds intense enough to suggest that they were dying. _Bugger._ Wesley took the time he had, however, to reach into his coat and withdraw a fresh clip for his pistol. He grabbed the empty gun, ejected the old clip, and slammed the new one home, just as mercenaries second 'volley' ended, and they began to reload. “Bring it down....” Wesley began, scrambling to his feet... “ **Now!** ” David, now also on his feet, complied, and the vampires surged forward, the ones in the back leaping over their brethren to get to the fight, others climbing onto the walls and ceiling to bypass the front ranks. One leapt at Wesley, who bent over, letting the creature sail right past him.

He didn't bother to see where it landed, emptying his clip again, this time into one vampire, but the one he had 'dodged' landed in front of Faith, who by this point was more than ready to get into the fight. The vampire hissed at her, striking out with a clawed hand, but it wasn't expecting Slayer speed or strength. Faith caught the claw on her sword, the bony protrusions scraping across the tempered steel like nails across a chalkboard. With her other hand, Faith flipped the stake, point first, and drove it straight into the creature's face, catching it right in the eye, and indeed, driving right into its brain. It didn't even have a chance to screech, falling over dead, just in time for another to drop down in front of her from the ceiling.

Faith didn't wait for this one to actually do anything. She brought the sword down and around, slicing it deep into the vampire's abdomen, though not all the way through. It was those costly seconds as she removed the sword, slowed by the thick goop that was the vampire's blood, that cost her. The vampire, squirming on the blade, lashed out madly with one claw, scoring into her left upper arm. 

Faith recoiled back, hissing in pain, staggering a bit, though fortunately she managed to bring her sword with her. It wasn't a very deep cut, nor that bad of one, at the end of the day, or even in a spot worth worrying about – too much. Her Slayer Healing would have that dealt with in a matter of hours, unless she started suffering worse injuries. But still- fuck that shit hurt!

Her hiss must've caught attention, because even as she pulled the sword bag to stab the vampire, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, Mark spin around, raising a shotgun. With one pull of the trigger, the back of the vampire's head was filled with lead and it staggered forward. Faith stabbed it in the face, using her foot to wrench her weapon free of the body, blood continuing to spill all over her, the floor, the walls. By this point, indeed, blood both human and Red Courtier was starting to make the entire floor of the tunnel slick and slippery, keeping a solid purchase on the floor would only grow harder.

“Marine-boy! Behind you!” Faith shouted at Mark. The soldier around to face the vampire behind him, but only to receive a full body blow to the chest that sent him sprawling back on the ground several feet. Still, keeping ahold of his gun, Mark pumped the shotgun, then fired again, right into the main body mass. The vampire kept coming, but now Faith was returning the favor Mark had given her. She was too far to use even the sword's length against the vampire, but it wasn't that long of a range either. She held sword by its handle, as if holding the middle of a javelin, and threw, the force of the through carrying the heavy blade right through the creature's stomach, the point carrying through to the other end. It screeched, adding yet another noise to a small, packed area of tunnel already filled with the sound of screeches, screams, yells, incoherent war-cries, coherent curses and shouts and gunfire. 

Faith went to Mark as the vampire collapsed to the ground and offered a hand to the man. She pulled him to his feet, the back of his shirt now soaked with a combination of human and vampire blood, seeping through onto his skin. “You gonna live, marine-boy?” Faith asked, a smile on her face. Despite all the carnage and death, despite her own injury...this battle was, like the Battle inside the Hellmouth had been, for that matter, exhilarating. Neck deep in a fight like this, covering the floor in the blood and bodies of dead vampires and demons...this was what she was born for she felt, what it was to be a Slayer. _God Dammit! but I love being a Slayer!_ Faith thought.

“Oh, I'll live.” Mark said. He didn't think anything was broken, though if he'd cracked a rib or two, he wouldn't be too terribly surprised. Still, it was, perhaps, a little amazing what adrenaline will do to a man in the middle of a fight. “How about you?” He asked, nodding at her arm.

Faith scoffed. “I'll live. Hell, in a few hours it will be-” Her voice cut off as she felt...more...her senses were on near-overload with so many vampires in amongst them...but she felt more...and not coming from the front of the line. “Fuck! There's more coming from behind us!” Without waiting for Mark's reaction to that news, she pulled her sword from the dead vampire, leapt onto the spot where the tunnel wall was diagonal, connecting the mostly flat wall with the mostly flat floor, and running along it for about two feet. With a grunt, Faith crouched back at that point for a second, starting to slip down the wall a few centimeters...then, with a yell, Faith propelled herself forward, landing at the back of the line as another mass of Red Courtiers, again, wearing their true forms, came around the corner into view.

Faiths stood between the vampires and the fight behind her, blood dripping slowly off of her sword, adding an almost menacing effect to her stance. She held the blade in a reversed grip, the bottom of the hilt a few inches away from her neck and the blade extending out in front of her. She wasn't going to be fighting quite alone, though. Two of the mercenaries turned as she jumped past them and immediately began emptying their pistols into the advancing enemies. Once the weapons were empty, the mercenaries did the next logical thing and just lobbed them into the vampires as if they were so much useless metal. None fell...the two mercenaries pulled up their shotguns. 

“Your sword!” Faith said to one of them. “Give it to me!” The man hesitated only for a second, then retrieved the weapon and tossed it at Faith, who caught the spinning hilt with her free hand. As if throwing a knife, she spun it into the vampires and it hit one, a steel wheel of death scything through one, then into another, clattering to the ground with one of its victims. 

Faith was right on the heels of the projectile, holding the sword with both hands as she swung it wildly, ignoring her own guard, cutting into one, two, three Red Courtiers, then back around, driving right into the mass. She hissed as she was cut across her back by a rake from a vampire's claw, now surrounded, as shotguns blasted into the vampires, a few fragments sailing by her head. 

Faith was almost beyond purely rational thought. The heat of battle...the spirit of the First Slayer, that lived in all Slayers, stretching back to first slayer to come after that girl in prehistoric Africa...and continued to live now, in each and every Slayer created by Willow's spell...it had almost possessed her...it wasn't in control of her, in any real sense, but recklessness, the call of battle had taken control of her, much like it it had down in the Hellmouth...

She grabbed the second sword, wrenching it free from the corpse of the vampire it had been embedded in. With a sword in each hand, she began almost a whirlwind of death, slicing into vampire after vampire, not always killing, but always wounding enough to elicit a screech. Despite that, Faith was not immune to receiving injury herself. Slice after slice of the claws went into her, each one almost nothing worth bothering about at all, even a few hardly of any concern...but soon she had a dozen, then even more, blood, both the black ichor of the Red Courtiers and the red of her own life's essence, stained her completely, so it was impossible, really, to tell if she actually had clothes underneath the blood...and still, there were more Red Courtiers...ever more.

Wesley, at the front, had no awareness of Faith's growing plight...lacking the advantage of Slayer speed and strength, Wesley was dispatching his foes with much slower speed, and he too had suffered a number of cuts, though nothing on the order of what Faith had.

“You show great skill.” The vampire he was fighting said, speaking Spanish, which was no trouble for Wesley, being both a human and living language. “You would do well as a warrior of the Red Court.” 

“Perhaps.” Wesley replied in the same language. He swung his sword, only to have it get caught in the vampire's hand. “But I'd also make a poor minion, regardless of any sire-childe bond. And more importantly, I'm rather attached to my humanity.” Wesley pulled his blade away, the motion accidentally bringing his left arm into the vampire's reach....with blinding speed, it had his arm locked in a vice-grip, and then, it twisted.

Wesley fell back, only just staying on his feet, his left arm hanging uselessly by his side. With a toothy, fearsome grin, the vampire lunged at his crippled opponent, only to suffer a sword right into the gut. Wesley didn't pull it out, but rather turned it on its side, _still inside the vampire_ , tearing up the creature's flesh and insides even more. Then he pulled it out...by moving it to the side, out through where its waist was. The vampire fell back, and for good measure, Wesley stabbed it right in the brain, once, twice...three times, and it was no longer twitching, blood escaping from the wounds, brain matter clinging to his sword. He looked up from his latest victim to see the pace of the battle...between them, they'd managed to dispatch the primary attacking vampire force, from the front. There were still a few scattered fights going on, as Red Court and one or more mercenaries locked together in close combat. The cost, though, had been brutal. Wesley guessed, just at a glance at the bodies, that half his force – eight the men and women who he'd led into this brutal meat-grinder – had died.

Then Wesley turned completely and saw the mass of vampires in the back, and caught a tiny glimpse of his former Slayer in amongst them. “David!” He barked at the pyromancer, who had been mostly conserving his power throughout the fight, his magic to be saved for the leader of the Reds here. Wesley pointed at the vampires at the back, at Faith surrounded, covered in blood, about to be buried by the sheer weight of bodies.

Without a word, David nodded. Despite the urgency, he couldn't afford to run across the slippery ground, and indeed, had to walk with a slow carefulness that aggravated Wesley, but he knew it was the only option. Still, within a minute, the magic-user was within range of the vampires, and he formed twin fireballs in his hands, then threw them, each one catching a vampire in the back. A human _might_ not have died instantly from that fire, but Vampires of the Red Court – any court – were hardly human. They crumbled to the ground, charred remnants of their former selves that were dispatched with a smooth shotgun blast each. The opening created, David set to widening it, another two fireballs crashing into the enemy.

“Faith!” Wesley called. “Get out from there!” Faith, far gone as she was, knew when she was outmatched. She didn't really register the words from her former Watcher, but she did see that an opening was created, and she fought her way back towards it, escaping the mass.

With Faith out of the way, several mercenaries threw white phosphorous grenades at the Red Courtiers. All of them already wounded, the explosions of white flame, burning shards of metal...it was all that was needed. With one final series of keening screeches, the last of their Red Court attackers died.

_The tunnel hurt their numerical advantage, we had a Slayer..._ the odds had been stacked against them, true, in some ways, but in others, not quite as much as you'd think. If it had been against this number of Black Court vampires, the fight would have been much, much harder...guns, on the other hand, when it came to Red Courtiers, actually did lasting harm of the same type it did to humans. It just took more shots.

“You going to live?” Wesley asked Faith softly, shoving the pain in his arm to the back of his mind.

“Just a scratch. Nothing to worry about. I'll heal in a few hours.” Faith replied weakly, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. _Though I'll be damned if I admit that to him._

“Just a scratch?! Bloody hell, we're talking at least – at least – two dozen wounds on you. Even Slayer healing takes a few hours!”

“Look who's talking Wes,” She pointed to his broken arm, to the scratches he'd suffered. “And you don't even have _any_ Slayer healing working for you. Besides, we're not done yet, are we. Where are the rest? Where we headed?”

“We're not going onto anywhere!” Wesley protested. “I don't know if you've noticed, but we've suffered fifty percent casualties, and not one of us still standing is in any condition to keep fighting.”

“Did we get them all?” Faith asked, knowing the answer.

“Well...no...Baron Zaragoza is still alive.” Wesley admitted. “And there have to be at least a few more of his elite minions close around him.”

“Exactly, then.” Mark said. “We can't leave any of them alive.” His words were echoed by everyone else around the tunnel. Especially Faith, despite her accumulated injuries. “If any live, they'll just kill more people, make more Red Courtiers. They'll come back. We need to exterminate the entire nest of them.” More echoes of agreement. 

Wesley didn't want to...they were in no condition, he felt...but at the same time, they were right. If they left the job done now... And he doubted they'd obey him, at this point, if he had them turn around and head home. Faith certainly wouldn't. He hissed. “Fine. Let's go.” They proceeded forward along the tunnel, even though they were entirely going blind. Wesley had no idea where Baron Zaragoza would be...

It took nearly an hour, and Wesley was quite sure they were effectively lost, but then Faith felt her senses act up again. “There's something ahead. Red Court.” She said. “Not that many...” 

Wesley inhaled sharply, then nodded. He pressed ahead, and they found themselves entering a large, high-ceiling cavern. It was in theory too dark for them to see in it, but the entire cavern was dimly lit by the glow of a swirl of magical power in the center. Standing around it was five Red Court vampires...

“Your timing is rather horrible, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.” One of them said softly. “I was about to depart this place – you've turned Chicago into a charnel house for my kind. Obviously not somewhere I should be staying.”

“Do you really think I'm just going to let you leave? After all the chaos and death you've wrought here in this city, after you've killed so many of my men...do you really think I'd let you get away with all of that?”

“What can you do to stop me? I can enter this portal before a single one of you could reach me, and none of your weapons can kill me before I make my escape. So how do you propose to prevent me from escaping?”

“Kill you? Oh, no Your Grace. Killing you is a little too quick.” Wesley stepped a pace forward. “Well, actually, it is too quick, as I said, but at the same time...I don't think I can be bothered with torturing you. At the end of the day, pond scum like you is irrelevant. Death is never too good for my opponents, and certainly not for you.”

“You still can't hurt me!” The Baron laughed. “Not enough to kill me.”

“Damn!” Faith exclaimed, chuckling. “These Red Court Vampires love to talk as much as the Black Court ones.”

“Don't compare me to those degenerate corpses!” Zaragoza replied heatedly. “I am Red Court! I am of noble lineage!”

“You're a fucking leech, a parasite.” Wesley said. “A slug is more productive to the world than you.”

The Red Courtier snared, then... “You're trying to make me angry. Make me attack you. I'm not that stupid, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.”

“No, but as you notice, we managed to keep up your verbal diarrhea...and that let your minions know what you thought of them. You didn't mention them getting away at all, now did you? Well, it seems...they've decided to take the portal in their own hands.” Indeed, all four of the other vampires that had been standing near Zaragoza had stepped into the portal...which was closing rapidly. The Baron dove for it, desperate to escape – his right arm slipped into the shrinking rift...and it closed around his elbow, leaving him with half of an arm. He began to scream.

“Faith, you want him?” Wesley turned towards the Slayer.

“Hell yea!” Faith jumped at the vampire and picked him bodily up, hurling him into the wall, then chasing after him. She started to beat into him. Wesley heard the cries of pain and decided they were quite a pleasant sensation to the ears.

The Red Court in Chicago had been dealt with.


	23. The Big Bad...Ghost?

**Disclaimer:** Dresden Files – not mine. Angel the Series – not mine. Buffy the Vampire Slayer – not mine.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 23: The Big Bad...Ghost?

**Wesley's Office, Oracle Securities  
**  
7:59 pm, May 26th, 2003

Wesley sat down at his desk gingerly, wincing a little at the motion it took to pull something so simple off. He grimaced, then chuckled darkly, imagining what a sight he looked – like a man half torn to shreds, perhaps. He wasn't completely covered in bandages, but pretty much every other five square inch patch of skin or so, give or take, was bandaged up, his broken arm in a cast. Doing everything one-handed was not, as he learned quickly, anything resembling an easy task, but then, he'd hardly expected it to be easy.

Not one of the survivors of the team he'd taken down into Undertown had escaped without being in some variation of the state Wesley was in. Except for Faith. Faith had gotten it far worth. She'd only been about halfway through thrashing Baron Zaragoza to within an inch of his life when the adrenaline that had been all she'd been running on at that point had finally run out. The mercenaries had filled the late nobleman with lead to finish him off, then they'd dragged the body out into the sunlight for good measure. More out of spite than thinking it was necessary. Mark had carried Faith to one of the private doctors he kept on retainer, in this case part of the medical team for Oracle Securities. She wasn't in any danger of dying, but she was also going to need, even with Slayer Healing, several days to recover fully.

One-handed, Wesley flipped open Faith's cell phone and searched through the contacts. Selecting one, he pressed 'dial' and held it up to his ear. Several rings later, the unmistakable voice of Buffy Summers came through.

“Faith?”

“No, actually.” Wesley said. “She's indisposed at the moment.”

“Wesley?!” The surprise in the Slayer's voice was obvious, and expected. “What are you doing with Faith's phone?”

“I hardly knew your number offhand, and I figured she'd have it programmed in her contacts.”

“So I take it Faith arrived and gave her apology, then?” Buffy asked the obvious.

“Obviously.” Wesley was in no mood to humor the Slayer on that front. “Needless to say I didn't accept the apology. But, since she was here in town at a rather opportune time, I did ask her to join me in a spot of vampire slaying.”

“A spot of vampire slaying?” Wesley could hear the raised eyebrow in her voice. “From your tone, I'm guessing it wasn't just a few.”

“More like eighty, give or take.” Wesley said. Admittedly, he hadn't counted. “I was already prepared to go in with others of my organization, but having a Slayer along made the whole process significantly easier, as you might expect.”

“Your organization?” Now the eyes narrowed, in her voice. 

“I work under the auspices of Baron Marcone, Freeholding Lord of the Unseelie Accords.”

“That doesn't really answer the question. Could you translate that into non-Watcherese?”

“Too much to go into over the phone, really.” Wesley answered. “Ask Mr. Giles to explain it to you. For that matter, he should probably actually take the time to tell you and Miss Rosenberg about The White Council, and the Wardens, now that you've moved beyond the Sunnydale Hellmouth. I take it you're setting up shop on the Cleveland Hellmouth?”

“That's the plan. At least, setting up the headquarters of the 'New Watchers Council' we're setting up, anyway. Giles flew back to England from L.A. to sort out the Council's money.” She changed the subject. “So let's get back to the whole 'you using Faith's cell phone' thing.”

“Faith is currently unconscious and recovering from the fight. She nearly got herself torn to shreds. Which is, incidentally, why I called. Moving her at this juncture would be...ill-advised, so I thought you deserved a heads-up that she wouldn't be arriving Cleveland for a while. A few days, at least, a week on the outside.”

“Nearly torn to shreds? What did you have her do?” Buffy demanded.

“She decided to cartwheel right into the center of thirty Red Court Vampires, and suffered the logical consequences of being completely and utterly surrounded.” He sighed. “That said, her actions probably saved the lives of myself and those of my team who did manage to make it out alive as well. She's being treated by the best in the way of medical care money can buy.”

“Yes, I so trust her in your hands, Wesley.” Buffy spat. 

“And what is the other option? Moving her over to Cleveland? In her condition? Oh, it probably wouldn't be good for her, but it wouldn't exactly advance her prospects of recovery. And I don't really think you can just take a trip off the Hellmouth now that you're getting things set up there. She'll be fully recovered and back in Cleveland soon enough.” There was no rule saying he had to be the one to stay on topic either, he considered. “Faith told me that Angel and company helped you out in preventing another regularly scheduled apocalypse. Are they with you in Cleveland?”

“No....” Buffy replied, thrown a bit by the sudden topic change. “When we left Sunnydale, everyone headed to L.A. That's where Giles flew off to England, and we left Angel and his people.”

“I see. Well, as I said, you can expect to see Faith within a week or so, at the outside.” Without waiting for a reply, he hung up and turned the cell phone off. He had no interest in hearing more from Buffy on any subject. He put the phone down and made a mental note to have it taken down to Faith later.

“So its just Diocletian now.” He thought aloud. _Unfortunately...I can't think of a way to easily dispatch him. At the end of the day, a warlock of his caliber is really the responsibility of Dresden. His area of expertise, anyway._ He sighed and leaned back in his chair, wincing yet again.

****

Wesley's Office, Oracle Securities  
10:15 am, June 1st, 2003

“As you can tell, Mr. Marcone, the defeat of the Red Court has significantly stabilized things here in Chicago. Wolfram and Hart has, unfortunately, contributed to that stabilization as well, apparently no happier about the steady stream of bounty-hunters that Diocletian called in than anyone else is.”

“And yet Diocletian remains at large.” Marcone said over the phone.

“Its a big city.” Wesley replied, unapologetic. “And perhaps more importantly, taking on someone like Diocletian is not really within our capacity. Wolfram and Hart brought him in to handle Dresden, and it will have to be Dresden that does the real work in taking him down. We're going to provide what support we can to any attempt to bring Diocletian down, once found, but until then, there's little we can do. Our hands are tied.” 

“Understandable, perhaps. But I don't like it.” He paused, “What about the rebuilding of the Watchers Council. Will that pose any problems?”

“I can't imagine it would pose any direct problems. They're not signatories of the Accords, and knowing Buffy Summers, both personally and by reputation, I doubt she'd have any patience for something so deliberately obtuse and confusing. And Rupert Giles is, despite his radicalism, too steeped in Council tradition to consider it either. Indeed, the creation of a new, more active Watchers Council and the myriad of Slayers activated during the Fall of Sunnydale can only help the fight against demons and vampires worldwide. Indeed, since this New Council will almost certainly not be able to find every Slayer, and get every Slayer to join with them, I believe your overarching organization and Oracle Securities in particular, with a bit of legwork, might be able to hire some on, for...whatever purposes you require.”

Wesley paused for a moment, wishing he could switch the phone to his other ear. He cursed his broken arm, and continued: “The only possible downside I see is that some portion of the present residents of the Cleveland Hellmouth might decide to leave for greener pastures, given the sudden insertion of multiple Slayers into the area. And some of those might decide Chicago is one of those greener pastures. We can handle it, however.”

“Alright. And your current funds? Are they sufficient?”

“They are at present.” Wesley confirmed. “The Legal Department's portion of the recent Class-Action Lawsuit settlement against that client of Wolfram and Hart has helped significantly. Not quite as helpful as if we'd been able to force a trial, but the hit was significant. And it helped our bottom line noticeably.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Nothing I can think of, Mr. Marcone.” Wesley replied 

“Alright. Goodbye.” Marcone hung up.

**Lilah's Office, Wolfram and Hart  
10:37 am, June 1st, 2003**

“Our spy satellite has picked up what Lindsey retrieved from the ruins of Sunnydale.” Denna said, putting several photos on Lilah's desk. “Its definitely the amulet.”

Lilah picked up the photographs and looked through them, though she didn't need to confirm Denna's words that way. _What possible use could the Amulet serve to Wesley and Oracle Securities?_ The Amulet had already served its purpose, destroying the First's army of Turok-Han and collapsing the Sunnydale Hellmouth. 

“Might he be interested in doing to Cleveland what was done to Sunnydale?” Denna vocalized Lilah's next thought.

The Head of Wolfram and Hart Chicago considered that for a few minutes, then shook her head. “No. I don't think that's it. I mean, the only other souled vampire around is Angel, and Wesley doesn't want to be anywhere close to his old friend any time soon. Besides, for it to all work out, he'd have to get Buffy to work with him as well, and I can't see her wanting Angel to go the way of Spike either.”

“But Angel would jump at the chance to sacrifice his life like that, all heroic.” Denna noted.

Lilah chuckled at that. “All too true. While we're on the subject of Buffy and Cleveland...see if you can arrange a talk between myself and the head of the Cleveland branch via the White Room. The strategic situation has completely changed, with an army of Slayers sitting right in what was our backyard.”

“I'll make some calls.” Denna promised, writing something down on a notepad.

Lilah pressed a button with her phone. “Get me Files and Records.” She ordered.

“Yes Miss Morgan.” Came the reply. A minute later:

“Files and Records, how may I help you?”

“Send up everything you have on the Amulet the L.A. Branch gave to Angel and was used at Sunnydale to collapse the Hellmouth.”

“Understood.” Came the reply. Lilah pressed another button on her phone and the call ended. She looked up at Denna. “Lindsey will be arriving in Chicago, today. Put a tail on him. He'll probably only go to Oracle Securities and his apartment, but let's make sure.”

Denna nodded, “Alright.” Taking that for the dismissal that it was, she left Lilah's office.

“What are you up to, Wesley?” Lilah thought aloud

**Wesley's Office, Oracle Securities  
3:58 pm, June 1st, 2003**

“Got it.” Lindsey said as he walked into Wesley's office. By way of explanation, he tossed a gaudy-looking amulet on a gold chain towards his boss. Wesley caught it reflexively, then looked at it. “Looks like something a pimp would wear, doesn't it?” Lindsey asked.

“Something like that.” Wesley agreed. “So how do we get Spike into his ghost format – you know, out of the amulet itself?”

“Just drop it on the ground. Probably want to maintain a bit of distance between yourself and it, though.” Lindsey cocked his head. “So why are you so interested in getting Spike anyway?”

“Because someone else probably would, eventually, if I didn't. And I would prefer that he didn't find his way back into the hands of Buffy and her friends. From what I gather, she slept with him quite a bit, before and after he got a soul. I really don't think there should be encouragement of a vampire and Slayer getting it on together, even if the vampire in question was souled or otherwise harmless. Besides that, he might be useful. The trick is just to make sure he never becomes solid again.”

“So...wait...you're going to enslave him? Keep him on the short leash of the amulet and use him whenever we need a pet ghost-vampire with a soul to do something for us?”

“Pretty much.” Wesley admitted. _Good thing Faith healed faster than I expected and left yesterday. He added mentally. I expect Buffy would take it rather...badly, if she found out we had her latest vampire fuck toy in our possession._

“Are we supposed to be the _good_ guys? Or at least the vaguely morally light gray? Pretty sure what you're suggesting crosses the line from light gray to at the very least dark gray, if not all black.”

“Does the idea of using Spike to further our ends bother you?”

Lindsey shrugged. “To be perfectly honest, not really.” He chuckled darkly. “And that is what bothers me. I'm not a White Hat, but I'd like to think I'm something approaching 'good guy' status. Headed in the right direction anyway.”

“Being bothered about being bothered – or not being bothered – is perhaps the most useless activity known to man kind.” Wesley pointed out.

“True.” Lindsey agreed. “Alright. Well, let's see what we shall see.” Lindsey nodded to the Amulet in Wesley's hand. Wesley nodded and stood up, walking to the other side of his desk. He gestured for Lindsey to back up a bit, and the lawyer complied. Wesley stepped back a bit as well and carefully tossed the amulet to the ground between them.

A loud whirling sound, like that of a tornado, assaulted their ears, as what looked a great deal like a small tornado started to form, black, like ash. It swirled around and around for several seconds, forming into a large, man-sized cloud above the Amulet. Beneath it, the amulet glowed brightly, colorlessly. But the swirling tornado only lasted for bare seconds. Soon enough, a burn skeleton, bones charred, connecting themselves together like some grisly jigsaw puzzle. 

Soon enough, though, the skeleton was complete. Flesh, as burnt as the bow, started to grow, as if some kind of aggressive mold, the center growing brighter, pinker, as if they were watching death by immolation in reverse. It was just under a minute from when it had all started that standing before them both, wearing a black trench-coat, blonde hair slicked back, was Spike. William the Bloody, one of the most deadly vampires in history.

And was screaming. Not high pitched, but definitely a scream, a scream of rather intense pain, by the sound of it. But soon, that too ended, and Spike was hunched forward a bit, gasping heavily. It took the vampire-ghost a few moments to realize something was very wrong.

“What the bloody happened to me?” He demanded. “Where the bloody hell am I? And who the bloody **hell** are you two!?” In frustration, Spike kicked at the desk – and watched his foot pass through the solid wood as if it was so much air.

“In order:” Wesley began, “You used that amulet there,” he nodded to it, lying innocuously on the ground, “to destroy the First Evil's Turok-Han army and collapse the Sunnydale Hellmouth. Of course, to do so, you had to channel the power of the Sun through yourself, which, understandably, was lethal to you. It destroyed your physical body, and absorbed your essence into the Amulet. You've now been released from the amulet, but since your corporeal form was destroyed, you are, in essence, a ghost. As for where you are, you're in Chicago, specifically, my office in the Oracle Securities headquarters building. I am Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, CEO of Oracle Securities, and this is Lindsey McDonald, head of our legal division.” He nodded towards Lindsey. 

“Wesley? The poncy git of a Watcher that made Peaches look straight?” Wesley frowned a little – just a little – at that, while Lindsey cracked a smile, then chuckled softly. 

“You've heard about me?”

“Giles mentioned you once.” Spike replied, then, “I'm a sodding _ghost_? What the bleeding hell!” He kicked at the desk again, to no avail. Growling angrily, he adopted his true face and lunged at the desk, as if that would be enough. Instead he was just left standing inside it.

“Wesley, I need to talk to-” Abigail said, opening the door. Then she saw Spike, wearing his true face. Instinctively, she pulled a stake from her belt and propelled it into Spike's heart, her accuracy dead on...but the stake passed right through and embedded itself an inch into the wall. Abigail looked from the uninjured vampire, to Wesley, to the uninjured vampire, back to Wesley.

“Oi! What the sodding hell do you think you're doing? Are you bleeding daft? You could have killed-” Then he looked down at the desk he was standing in, and his voice trailed off. Clearly he wasn't used to his new status.

“Wesley? What is a Black Court vampire doing standing _in_ your desk? And how did my stake pass right through him?” As if to punctuate her words, the stake fell out of the wall and clattered to the floor.

“Abigail, meet William the Bloody, also known as Spike. One of the most viscous Black Court vampires in history. Spike, meet Abigail St. Pierre, resident kinetomancer and Head of the Oracle Securities Magical division.” Wesley turned back to Abigail. “He's a ghost, at the moment, but before he became a ghost, he had recently acquired a soul.”

“So he's like that one vampire you mentioned to me...Angel? Except...intangible?”

“Oi!” Spike said again. “I am _nothing_ like that poof!”

“Essentially, yes, he's like Angel.” Wesley said, ignoring Spike's objections. 

“So why is he here?”

“Because he might be useful.” Wesley replied. “Despite the fact that I don't know any way to reverse his intangibility.” 

“Wait- what!?” Spike demanded. “Bloody hell! I save the whole world by burning myself to a crisp, then get stuck in an amulet and turned into a ghost instead of enjoying my afterlife in peace! And now I'm stuck like this. No, I don't believe that. You're a Watcher. Do what watchers do. Research!”

“I was unaware that I took orders from you.”

“Oh sod it!” Spike threw his hands up a moment. “Like you'd know how. Hell, even as a ghost I don't have to stay here.” He headed for the wall. Wesley heard him mutter 'Red'll know how to fix this mess.” He walked out through the wall.

Wesley chuckled. The amulet would bring him back soon enough.


	24. Final Score

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Dresden Files, or Angel the Series. I own my laptop, some books, and drawer full of computer games. Sue me if you want in on that. But its not worth your time. Really.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Chapter 24: Final Score

**The White Room, Wolfram and Hart Chicago  
7:54 am, June 18th, 2003**

“The situation in Chicago does not develop at the pace we were promised.” The words came from what appeared to be Lilah. The Emissary of the Chicago White room liked to take the form of whoever it was it was talking to. “Oracle Securities has only strengthened its position, Dresden has not be neutralized, and the underworld remains unstable. How do you account for these failures? The Senior Partners are not pleased.”

Lilah held her composure. Compared to Angel, or the Beast, the Emissary was small change. The threat of the Senior Partner's displeasure wasn't something to be taken lightly either, but Lilah was always prepared for backlash from them. Had been for years. The only question was would her insurance policy protect her. Fortunately, she'd never had to answer that question once and for all, and she was confident she could talk herself out of a need to use it this time as well.

“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is not Angel, and Oracle Securities is not Angel Investigations, and expecting the one to resemble the other, or expecting the same kind of mostly free hand here that we had in Los Angeles us not only a false conceit, but possibly a deadly one as well. Oracles Securities, as part of the umbrella organization under the authority of Baron Marcone, in his role as a Freeholding Lord under the Accords, cannot just be eliminated out of hand. Which is probably the only resemblance between the threats posed by Angel and Oracle Securities – with the Accords filling the role of prophecy as the constraint on the Firm's options, in this case.” 

She paused for a moment, then proceeded to the next point. “The geopolitical landscape of the supernatural world, as it were, has changed. While Wolfram and Hart, in terms of power in this dimension, has never been a superpower on the level of the White Council or the Vampire Courts, in the circles it moves in, the Firm has been the dominant force. With the recent activation of hundreds, if not thousands of Slayers worldwide, the rise of Baron Marcone, and the formation of an actively militant, non-governmental human organization – that is also covered by the Accords, the entire strategic calculus of the mid-ranked and lesser powers, such as Wolfram and Hart and Marcone's little empire has changed. And for that matter, I can guarantee you that, regardless of any dislike Wesley Wyndam-Pryce might have for Buffy Summers and Rupert Giles – which is both very real and quite intense – we will see Oracle Securities become an organization that the new Watcher/Slayer organization will use as official cover to operate under the protection of the Accords. To one degree or another.”

“Is there a point to all of this, Miss Morgan? Because this seems to me to be directionless rambling. Are you trying to fast-talk your way into confusing me?”

“Not in the least, Mini-Me.” Lilah snarked in reply. “If you'll let me finish, I can get to my point.” She glared at the Emissary. “So...will you let me finish?” The Emissary nodded regally. Lilah just rolled her eyes.

“Now, I wasn't the one that decided to pursue a course of action that was essentially everything _but_ open warfare between Wolfram and Hart Chicago and Oracle Securities. That was the decision of my predecessor in this position, Marcus Lott. And you – well, the Senior Partners, anyway – clearly thought he was doing _something_ wrong, or you wouldn't have brought me in here to replace him. It was Marcus Lott who decided to bring in Gregory of Arles, and it was he who had the absolutely _brilliant_ idea to bring in an obsessive, power-mad, uncontrollable psychopath like Diocletian in as a counter-weight to Dresden. The failure of both forces to perform as advertised is the failure not of my tenure, but of Mr. Lott's time here.” _No need to bring up the whole....deal, with the Red Court._

“And, while it is true that my emphasis on a more subtle, 'Cold War-style' approach towards Oracle Securities and Harry Dresden has decreased revenues by allowing Dresden and Wyndam-Pryce to focus more on countering our more...mundane enterprises, that same stance has actually increased overall profits because it has driven expenses downward as well.”

“Money is hardly the only thing that matters to the Senior Partners, Miss Morgan. Indeed, it is merely a means to an end. What other successes of your time here can you point to?”

“Keeping the bulk of Oracle Securities' attention and resources tied in Chicago and the surrounding area.”

“Elaborate.” The Emissary demanded. 

“Oracle Securities was created by Marcone to counter Wolfram and Hart specifically, yes but if Wolfram and Hart was to pack up and leave Chicago, Marcone would hardly disband it. His criminal empire is centered here, yes, but his financial interests, legal and otherwise, spread from beyond just this city. And Wyndam-Pryce won't just let the resource Oracle Securities presents go to waste in terms of countering us elsewhere. As long as Wolfram and Hart Chicago remains in operation and a semi-active threat, however, Wyndam-Pryce and Marcone will be forced to keep most of their resources invested in figuring out what we're up to here, countering us, and having a reserve in case we try anything big. Rather than interfering with our operations in, say the strategically more important cities of Los Angeles and Cleveland. Or helping the new Slayer/Watcher Organization more broadly.”

The Emissary scowled. It didn't like being proven wrong. “And what about your...sexual liaisons with Wyndam-Pryce?”

“I know my contract inside and out. Who I choose to sleep with – indeed, all aspects of my private life – are of no concern to you, the firm or the Senior Partners, unless they interfere with my ability to do my job.”

“Are you trying to tell me that sleeping with the leader of your primary opposition has no bearing on your ability to do your job?” The Emissary narrowed its eyes skeptically. 

“Actually, I am. Its pretty much sex between us. Oh, I won't deny I have a certain fondness for the man, and I suspect he feels something similar – though we'll never admit it to eachother – but it really doesn't have a bearing on the conflict between our respective organizations. I mean, I won't kill him if a better option presents itself, but I wouldn't hesitate to kill or betray him if that was the most efficient option available. And he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to me.”

She paused, cocking her head as a thought occurred to her. “Though...come to think of it, my...let's call it a relationship for lack of a better word – with Wesley also serves as fairly good insurance against things going 'nuclear' here in Chicago.”

“Elaborate.” The Emissary demanded once again.

“You do know that I have a job to do, right, Mini-Me? I can't really stand around explaining myself to you all day.” She made a show of checking her watch.

The Emissary wasn't impressed. “Elaborate.” It insisted.

“Good to see that expansive vocabulary working out for you.” Lilah snarked once more. “Alright, I'll humor you. Wesley and I are familiar with the way we each think. I know how he thinks, he knows how I think. And the thing that would be most likely to cause things to go 'nuclear' here in Chicago is fear, combined with uncertainty as to how far the other side is willing to go. And then the desire to get rid of them before they go as far as a fevered, paranoid imagination might incline you to think the other side will go. But Wesley knows how far I'm willing to go, and I know how far he's willing to go. We understand the wavelength the other is on.” She looked at her watch again, “Now, I really do have a meeting to get to.” Without waiting for 'permission', Lilah turned and stepped into the elevator, leaving the White Room.

**Oracle Securities, Wesley's Office  
11:03 am, June 18th, 2003**

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Dresden.” Wesley said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Please, sit.” 

Harry Dresden pulled the chair in question out a bit, to give his legs more room, and sat. “Not a problem. Fortunately, things have been...unusually quiet recently. And, now that I've just said that, all hell is going to break loose.”

Wesley smiled a little at that. “I'm familiar with the concept. Would you care to knock on wood?” He gestured towards his desk.

Harry shook his head. “No. With my luck, it will just make things worse. But, anyway, you guys have helped me before, I've helped you, so I don't have much problem coming over to talk. What do you need?”

“Actually, its more in the way of what you need. I understand you've been developing new applications of your spells, new methods to fight Diocletian with, since they will be spells he hasn't seen from you before, and thus he won't know how to counter them?”

Harry nodded. “That's true. Well, I haven't been developing them for a while now, actually, because they're all pretty much developed. Diocletian just hasn't shown his face anywhere.” He smiled a little. “Its almost refreshing to be the guy that's being hidden from, rather than the guy that's doing the hiding.” He chuckled hollowly at that. “I have too much experience with that.”

“Well, finding Diocletian shouldn't be too much of a problem. We know his location.” Wesley said, reaching over to a notepad.

“How? I've been trying to find him for months.”

“Well, we didn't actually _find_ him, so much as someone told us what hole he is hiding in.” Wesley said, going through the notepad quickly, looking for a specific page. “His apprentice called. Apparently, she's not interested in being his slave in all but name anymore.” He leaned over to his computer and typed something into his computer, then clicked the mouse a few times. “I've gotten into the habit of recording every phone call I make or receive.”

“Paranoia isn't exactly an endearing character trait.” Harry said. “Not that I don't have a healthy dose of it myself, these days.”

“Paranoia is such a dirty word.” Wesley replied. He clicked the mouse one more time. 

“Wyndam-Pryce. Who is this?” Wesley's voice came out of the computer.

“Not important.” Came a female voice, as if from the other end of the a phone call. “I have information for you.”

“I'm not interested in any information unless I know who it is coming from, and how you got it – I have to verify accuracy. Are you with Wolfram and Hart?”

There was a dark, hollow chuckle on the other end of the line. “I wish. Probably be more fun than what I am stuck into. You've probably heard my name – I'm not giving it to you. Hell, we met too, on the island.”

“Diocletian's apprentice. Amy Madison.” Wesley said softly. “What do you want?”

“I want out.” Amy said. “I want Diocletian dead before he kills me for kicks.”

“Shouldn't you be calling Harry Dresden with this, then? Oracle Securities is good, but we're not that good.”

“Dresden alone won't be able to handle Diocletian. You're going to back him up. And more importantly, I have absolutely no interest in being taken in or killed by the Wardens. I want to make a deal. Diocletian's location for your promise of safe passage out of Chicago.”

“I try to avoid making deals with evil witches, Miss Madison.” 

“Spare me the self-righteousness.” Amy replied flatly. “Do you want to know where Diocletian is hiding, or do you want things in Chicago to stay completely fucked up because of his machinations?”

There was a long pause, as if Wesley was thinking, then, “Fine. I'll make sure you can get out of there once Diocletian is dead. I'll even have a train ticket for you, out of the city.”

“I don't believe you. Swear it.”

“Hell no.” Wesley replied cooly. “I try to avoid making promises. Hazard of my line of work. You're just going to have to trust me.”

“And why should I do that?”

“Because I'm you're only way out. You need Diocletian dead, and since you aren't going to contact Dresden for this deal direct, I'm your best option.”

Now it was Amy's turn to pause. “Fine.” She gave an address. An abandoned apartment building, set to be demolished eventually, when the city got around to it. “He spends all his time there.” The recording ended with Wesley hanging up. 

“That's....a little too convenient.” Harry said. “Screams trap with some nice blinking lights to go with it.”

“True.” Wesley said. “But you've never been one to avoid walking into a trap, from what I've heard.”

Harry scoffed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hell's Bells. No, I haven't been one for avoiding traps. More just go in and unload on the bad guys. And usually get my ass kicked the first go around. Still, I'd rather not go through the whole 'getting my ass kicked' part, if I can avoid it.”

“I think we can manage that.” Wesley said. “We will go in to help, though if this is a trap, then he'll expect that. But we also have something that Diocletian will completely not expect.” He pulled out his cell and dialed a number, then held it up to his ear. “Abigail? Could you send Spike up? I'd like to speak with him.”

“Because I still have an exorcist on speed dial. Because I'm perfectly prepared to get on a plane, fly overseas throw the amulet into the Atlantic Ocean along the way, and let him be stuck there for all eternity.” Whoever was on the other end of the line said something, and Wesley sighed. “Tell him that he should come up because if he helps me deal with an evil warlock, I'll call Buffy and let her know he's still in the realm of the...somewhat extant....Excellent. Alright.” He hung up.

“What was all that?” Harry asked.

“You heard about what happened to Sunnydale?” Wesley asked.

“Yea.” He'd asked Bob what the hell could do a thing like that. The knowledge spirit had told him that somehow, someone had destroyed the Hellmouth that Sunnydale sat on – best explanation, anyway. “Someone destroyed the Hellmouth.”

“Buffy Summers and company.”

“That Slayer.”

“One of many now, actually. You have to have heard the rumors.”

Harry nodded. “So they're true? Hundreds of supercharged demon-killers all over the world?” _The question is, Harry, is that good, or bad?_ The wizard asked himself.

“Indeed. Well, the Hellmouth was destroyed through the use of this.” He opened a drawer and took out the amulet. “Worn around the neck of the vampire known alternately as 'Spike' or 'William the Bloody' who apparently decided to make like his grand-sire and get himself a soul-”

“Oi!” Spike shouted, walking through the wall. Wesley smirked. “How many times to I have to say it? My soul's got nothing to do with the magnificent poof's!”

“You are _such_ an easy and predictable target.” Wesley replied cooly. “Spike, meet Harry Dresden. Harry Dresden, meet Spike. Spike is now, for reasons I don't understand, something resembling a ghost, but your friend Mort says he isn't any kind of ghost he's ever encountered before. Plus, he can interact with the world a whole lot easier than most ghosts. Spike, could you demonstrate for Mr. Dresden?”

“With pleasure.” Spike said with a vicious smirk. Without warning, he charged across the room and punched Wesley in the face, hard. Wesley's head snapped back, his hand flying up to his face, touching the bruise forming there. “Walked right into that one, mate.” Spike said with a gleeful smile.

“That threat of an exorcism still holds, Spike.” Wesley said. 

“Not until I help you get rid of this warlock you mentioned. So, let's get to it. Sooner he's in the ground, the sooner you call Buffy and the sooner Red makes me into a real boy again.” He rubbed his hands together. “So, who we killing?”

**Diocletian's Warehouse  
3:13 pm, June 18th, 2003**

“What, Harry Blackstone Dresden. No Warden Sword? You're not even wearing the cloak. How are you supposed to be the harbinger of the White Council's justice if you don't even look the part?”

Harry looked down at his enchanted duster, then back up at the cloaked and hooded warlock. “What can I say? I've always preferred black to grey. And apparently, I'm not trustworthy enough to get one of those neat swords.” 

“Then how do you propose to defeat me without violating the first law? A gun?” He laughed darkly, mockingly.

“It crossed by mind. True, I can't just shoot you right now, but there's nothing in the First Law about using magic to take you to death's door, and then just walking up and shooting you in the face.”

“You're quite confident of your abilities.” Diocletian said. “And with no justification.”

“You've spent the last few months hiding from me, ever since I used my force rings on you and scared you into this little hidey-hole of yours.”

“Time well spent, preparing. And then Amy Madison gave my location to Oracle Securities. And through them, to you. I'd say you fell into my trap, but the thirty or so armed mortals outside the building gives the lie to that. Do you really think they'll stop me, once I've killed you?”

“They're just here to keep you from running away again. At least on foot, anyway. You could always take a hop, skip and a jump through the Nevernever.”

“And leave you undefeated? No. I'll leave Chicago when I have your head to decorate my mantle.”

“It would probably clash with your décor.” Harry quipped back. “Look, I like trading words with the bad guys, but haven't you ever watched Doctor Who? Or read the Evil Overlord List? Never give the good guy time to just chatter on and on and on.”

“And why is that, Harry Blackstone Dresden?”

“Because.” Harry watched as Spike stepped out of the wall behind Diocletian. “It gives the good guys time to think of a plan. Or put one into place.” Spike struck out at the back of Diocletian's head with his fist. The fist connected, but only made Diocletian stagger forward a moment. He spun around.

“You dare to lay a hand on _me_ , vampire?!” He thrust out his hand, fire forming in it. “Burn in the hellfire your demon comes from!” Brimstone tainted the air as fire flew out of the warlock's outstretched hand, hitting Spike dead on, right in the chest.

And passing right through him, leaving him completely unharmed.

“Boo!” He said, punching out at Diocletian again. Moving surprisingly quick for a man of his age, the warlock sidestepped the punch. 

“It will take more than a simple ghost to defeat me!” _Well, shit Harry. That didn't quite go as planned._ Diocletian turned away from Spike for a second, thrusting out his other hand. A ball of hellfire a foot wide flew from his hand, growing to that size halfway through the trajectory. Harry started moving, bringing up his shield on instinct, even as it occurred to him he hadn't done anything to change his shield spell since the last time he'd faced Diocletian. _Hells Bells._

Harry was not, at the end of the day, much for praying. And not for the first time, he found himself wishing he had Micheal Carpenter's unshakeable faith. The hellfire hit the shield...

And didn't pass through. The shield was glowing white. “What the-” Harry exclaimed. He'd never seen that before in his life. The hellfire dissipated across the shield. The white glow...it felt...almost like when he'd used Hellfire those few times, when Lash had been in his head. But...it also felt...cleaner, somehow. Purer.

“ _IMPOSSIBLE!_ ” Whatever the hell Harry had just used, he realized, Diocletian knew full well what it was. 

Before Diocletian could throw another spell, he dropped the shield. “ _Ventas Fuego!_ ” Brandishing his blasting rod, the wind started to pick up. Slowly, at fist.

“I've seen this trick before!” Diocletian shouted at Dresden over the rising winds. “Don't you have anything new?”

“You didn't listen to what I had to say, did you?” Harry called back. “ _Ventas! Ventas! Ventas Fuego!_ ” The wind picked up even more...and then, the fire. As if riding on the wind itself, the flames appeared from seemingly nowhere, but started to fly around the room...taking the form of huge bats – Bob had been quite proud of that little addition – as they flew around the room, drawing ever closer to Diocletian. The warlock wasn't going down without a fight. Water flew from his hand, hitting the bats, but each time one was extinguished, Harry called another mass of flame. The energy he was calling on to pull this off was draining. He'd have to end this soon, somehow. The rings...the fire rings. _Of course..._

Raising his left hand, each finger had a copper ring, replacing, for the moment, the silver force rings he usually wore. He'd nearly forgotten about them...slipped them on as he was leaving his lab after preparing for this...the same principle as his force rings...but with fire. Focusing on the power within them, he immediately released the power.

A sheet of flame formed as the fire blasted out, driving across the distance towards Diocletian like the front-shovel of a snowplow truck. It hit him, his robes catching fire, though not as much as that fire would make it seem. The last few bats left – Harry had stopped reconjuring them – flew at Diocletian, adding to the flames. Diocletian threw them off – and Spike came at him again, delivering punch after punch. 

The warlock's magic was strong, yes, but it had a finite limit. Harry stood, a little shaky on his feet, and pulled out his gun. Large caliber, yes, but well fitted to his size. And great for putting a hole big enough to notice in things. He leveled the weapon, dropping his blasting rod to hold it with both hands.

“Too late, Dresden.” Diocletian laughed. Harry felt the power rising. Death Curse. Immediately, he started to shoot. Diocletian shouted something, exactly as the shot fired, crashing into his face – the Warlock was already dead.

“What did he say?” Harry demanded of Spike. The ghost-vampire with a soul shrugged. 

“Something, some other language. Didn't catch much of it anyway. Why? What's it matter?”

“Because it was his Death Curse.”

**Author's Note:** Probably a somewhat anticlimactic ending to Diocletian, I'll admit. But fight scenes, even magical ones, are not my forte, and Diocletian's power came from knowing spells and secrets. Not from raw power. 

Anyway, there's just one chapter left: The Epilogue.


	25. Epilogue: Rise and Shine

**Disclaimer:** What? Steal intellectual property? I have no idea what you're talking about. No officers, I'm not holding Angel the Series and the Dresden Files behind my back.

New City, Same Enemy

By Alkeni

Epilogue: Rise and Shine...

**The Deeper Well, England  
12:01 am, June 30th, 2003**

The cloaked and hooded man once labeled 'Darth Bathrobe' by Harry Dresden, and better known as Cowl stood at the entrance to the Deeper Well, considering what he was about to do. If it was the right thing to do.

Not in a moral sense. Cowl was far beyond such minor considerations – though Kumori had been possessed of the need to rationalize her actions within a moral construct, and he'd made sure to prevent her from understanding the full-scope of his plans and goals. 

No, what Cowl was concerned with was whether or not his plan would work. And, if it did, would it really advance his overall plans? Much as he was loathe to admit it, Cowl was not all-knowing. All available information suggested that this would work as he planned, but an old one as powerful and accomplished as Illyria was too powerful to just control. The most anyone could do, unfortunately, was point something like it in the direction of what you wanted it to do, carefully, and then hope things panned out.

And at this point, that was the best option to achieve what he was trying to achieve. While in no danger, and his plans overall proceeding quite nicely, things had been set back considerably by the antics of Harry Dresden during both the Darkhallow, and in the Deeps. And the activation of all the potentials across the world wasn't exactly helpful either – nor was the recovery of the Scythe. 

Cowl smelt the demon guards before he saw them, but it was no matter. One moment, there were a dozen demons with sword and armor, charging at him. The next, their spines had all been ripped out by an unseen force. 

A tall, almost statuesque man in antiquated period outfit, complete with armor and a sword, stepped out from the shadows amid the corpses of the guards he'd hired. 

“Ah. Drogyn the Battlebrand. I was wondering when you'd show up.” Cowl said smoothly. “I am here for Illyria.”

Drogyn drew his sword. “You will not have her, or any of the Old Ones imprisoned here. The Deeper Well will keep them all, here, where they belong.”

“Honestly, Drogyn, do you really think something so mundane as that sword can harm me?” Cowl said, laughing. It was a dark, hollow sound, that carried no echo, despite the arrangement of the room.

“I don't know. I've know idea who or what you are. But either way, I am sworn to protect the Deeper Well, and I will do so with my life if necessary.”

“How noble.” Cowl drawled. “You do know me. You know who and what I am. Call me Cowl.” 

Drogyn looked at the intruder again, his grip on his blade loosening for just half a second. “You.” He said with a whisper.

“Me.” He replied. 

Without another word, Drogyn leapt at him, sailing through the air towards the robed warlock, sword raised up over his head.

“Honestly, there is taking duty and chivalry too far, Drogyn.” Cowl said with another dark, hollow laugh. He reached out with one hand, holding it straight up, flat, holding Drogyn in place, mid-air, the sword less than six-inches from Cowl's body. “Its almost a pity that you must die, but that is what must be done. Goodbye, Drogyn.” His hand went from held flat to an almost claw-like hold, all five fingers point forward, curved and bent just slightly. He turned the hand rightward ninety-degrees, each finger moving a little. 

Blood exploded from Drogyn's chest, his ribcage shattered, the explosion becoming a gory fountain of blood and bone. Then the Battlebrand's heart flew out. Idly, Cowl caught it. He looked at it a moment, holding it a moment like Hamlet might Yorrick's skull. Then, casually, as if it meant nothing, he closed his fist, the heart resisting for a moment, expanding out between his fingers...

Then it too, like Drogyn's chest, just completely exploded, showering Cowl's robes with blood and bits of human heart. He paid the gore-rain no mind, watching impassively as Drogyn's body fell to the ground, deader than an icicle in hell.

Walking over the dead body, Cowl proceeded deeper into the halls of the Well, passing row after row of Sarcophagi, checking each name, looking for the one he wanted. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He pulled the object from its slot in the wall, letting it float in the air before him. He placed his hand on the gemstone a moment, his magic powerful enough to prevent the opening of the hatch and the release of Illyria from his motion. 

“Rise and Shine, Illyria.” Cowl said softly. “Rise and Shine.”

**Author's Note:** How is _that_ for an ominous ending? Keep your eyes peeled for the sequel: Tales from Oracle Securities.


End file.
